LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES 


BY 


E.    H.    AR  R 

(ELLEN  n.  KOI.UXS.) 


NEW  EDITION,  ENLARGED  AND  ILLUSTRATED. 


INTRODUCTION   BY  GAIL    HAMILTON. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
J.   B.    LIPPINCOTT    &    CO. 

1883. 


Copyright,  1882,  by  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  &  Co. 


TO   THE    MEMORY    OF 

MY  ELDEST  DAUGHTER,  MARION, 

WHO  DEARLY  LOVED  NATURE, 
AND  TO 

MY  SON  PHILIP, 

WHO  WILL,   I   TRUST,   IN   THIS   RESPECT   RESEMBLE   HER, 
THIS    BOOK 

IS   TENDERLY   DEDICATED. 


THIS  book  is  published  with  no  thought  of  an  audience.  It 
tells  of  real  scenes,  and  of  people  who  were  actors  in  them ;  but 
the  life  it  deals  with  is  so  very  simple  that  it  can  hardly  satisfy 
the  exacting  appetite  of  the  reading  public. 

It  is  permitted  to  go  into  print  especially  for  three  children, 
with  hope  that  their  curiosity  and  affections  may  be  stimulated 
by  it  towards  those  ancestors  from  whom  they  have  gotten  much 
of  the  good  which  is  in  them,  and  that  from  it  they  may  turn 
with  desire  and  appreciation  to  sources  of  what  have  been  to 
me  abundant  and  enduring  riches. 

Very  delightful  have  been  these  reminiscences,  taking  me  back 
to  bygone  days  and  much  good  company;  reframing  delicious 
pictures  which  have  kept  their  color  through  forty  years. 

The  children  will  read  the  book,  because  they  will  be  partial. 


6  PREFACE. 

Some  old-time  country  livers,  caught  by  its  title,  may  run  over 
its  pages,  recognize  familiar  things,  arid  be  quickened  by  them 
into  pleasant  memories. 

All  the  more  flattering  will  be  this  increase  of  readers,  because 
I  shall  know  that  the  hearts  of  such  have  been  enriched  by  their 
sweet  experiences  of  rural  life. 

E.  H.  A. 


TABLE    OF    CONTENTS, 


WITH 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


ILLUSTRATIONS   DESIGNED   AND    ENGRAVED   UNDER   THE   SUPERVISION    OF   MISS    EMILY    SARTAIN. 


ARTIST.  ENGRAVER. 

THE  ORCHARD  ON  THE  HILL 

(Frontispiece)         JAS.  D.  SMILLIE      .     .     FRED.  JUENGLING 


PREFACE. 

HEADING  W.  M.  DUNK         .      .      .      L.  FABER 5 


INTRODUCTION. 

PORTRAIT  OF  ELLEN  H. 

ROLLINS -     •  •  W.  B.  CLOSSON    ....  13 

HEADING W.  M.  DUNK  ...      L.  FABER 13 

THE   EARLY   HOME     .       .       .       .  F.  B.  SCHELL  .       .  .  J.  W.  LACDERBACH      .       .  19 

THE  LATER  HOME  .     .     .     .  J.  PENNELL  .     .  .  LETTIE  R.  WILLOUGHBY  .  29 

READY   FOR   THE   GLEANER   .  MARY  K.  TROTTER  .       L.  FABER 34 


ETCHINGS. 

ON   THE   APPLE-BOUGH        .       .  WILL  H.  LOW  .  .  .  G.  P.  WILLIAMS       ...  35 

FARMER   M W.  T.  SMEDLEY  .  .  F.  FRENCH  ....  39 

THE  VILLAGE  SMITHY      .     .  A.  B.  FROST       .  .  .  A.  J.  WHITNEY       ...  43 

SQUIRE   S •  AUG.  DAGGY        .  .  .  G.  P.  WILLIAMS        ...  48 


CONTENTS,  WITH 


THE  FARM. 

GRANDFATHER'S  LANE      .     . 

F.  B.  SCHELL      .      . 

.       E.  HEINEMANN         .      . 

.     49 

THE  OLD  WELL 

R.  SWAIN  GIFFORD 

W.  MILLER    .... 

52 

GOING  TO  PASTURE        .     .     . 

LEON  MORA.V       . 

.       G.  P.   WILLIAMS        .    '  . 

.     55 

THE  PASTURE  BARS      .     ... 

WM.  SARTAIN     .      . 

.       FRED.  JUENGLING 

.     57 

THE  VANGUARD  PINE        .     . 

F.  E.  LUMMIS      .       . 

.       H.  M.  SNYDER     .       .       . 

.     61 

THE  FARM-HOUSE. 

HE  \DING 

W.  11.  DUNK 

H.  M    SNYDER     .       .       .      . 

62 

IN  THE  KITCHEN   .... 

T.  HOVENDEN     .       .       . 

G.  P.  WILLIAMS       .       .       . 

64 

THE  BACK-LOG  .     . 

MARY  K.  TROTTER 

L.  FABER        

67 

SPINNING         

PERCY  SIORAN           .       . 

W.  B.  CLOSSON     .       .      .       . 

74 

FROM  THE  WINDOW 

W.  C.  BAUER 

J.  E.  SHARP 

76 

CORNER  CUPBOARD   TREAS- 

URES 

MARY  K.  TROTTER 

L.  FABER 

77 

SPRING-TIME  AND  HAYING 

APPROACHING  SPRING    .     . 
A  SPRING-TIME  CLUSTER      . 
THE       CLASSICAL        STORE- 
KEEPER         

H.  BOLTON  JONES      . 
ALICE  BARBER 

T.  HOVENDEN     . 

.      A.  J.  WHITNEY        .       .      . 
.      LETTIE  R.  WILLOUGHBY  . 

H.  WOLF          

78 
83 

86 

THE  BROOK    .      .      . 

H    BOLTON  JONES     . 

J.  FILMER      

90 

THE  COMING  STORM    .     .     . 
AT  NIGHTFALL 

H.  R.  POORE        .      . 
MARY  K.  TROTTER 

.      WM.  MtLLER       .... 
L.  FABER       

93 
95 

THE   VISIT. 
HEADING    . 
YELLOW  LILIES      .     . 

MARY  K.  TROTTER 
MARY  H.  IREDELL 

.      L.  FABER       .             ... 
L.  FABER      

96 

97 

BETSY  AMONG  THE  ALDERS 
SALLY'S  LUGGAGE        .     .     . 

H.  R.  POORE        .       . 
W.  M.  DUNK 

.      A.  J.  WHITNEY         .      .      . 
L.  FABER       

100 
10S 

HAYMAKER'S  LUNCHEON      . 
GOING  HOME       

W.  M.  DUNK         .       . 

H.  B.  M'CARTEB     . 

.      L.  FABER       
.      EDITH  COOPER    .... 

109 
111 

LITTLE  BENNY. 

HEADING W.  M.  DUNK        .      . 

GRANDFATHER  AND  LIT- 
TLE BENNY HOWARD  PYLE 

SWEET  -  SMELLING  BLOS- 
SOMS   MARY  H.  IREDELL 

-OF  SUCH  IS  THE  KING- 
DOM OF  HEAVEN"  .  .  AIARY  K.  TROTTER 


WM.  MILLER       .      .      . 


112 
114 
117 

120 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


THE  BURIAL-PLACE! 

HEADING    

ARTIST. 
W.  M.  DUNK 

ENGRAVER. 
L.  FABER       .... 

PAGE 
.       121 

GRANDFATHERS       BURIAL- 
PLACE            

W.  M.  DUNK 

E.  CLEMENT 

.       122 

THE  OLD  GRAVEYARD      .      . 
IN  MEMORIAM 

THOS.  MORAN      .      .       . 
W.  DUNK         .... 

J.  W.  LAUDERBACH      . 
L.  FABER       .... 

.     127 
.     132 

HANNAH  AND  JONATHAN. 

HEADING          

MARY  K.  TROTTER 

J.  DALZIEL    .... 

.     133 

HANNAH  AND  JONATHAN    . 
HANNAH'S  FLOWERS        .     . 

W.  T.  SMEDLEY        .      . 
MARY  H.  IREDELL 

A.  HAYMAN         .      .      . 
L.  FABER       .... 

.     134 
.     137 

THE  STRAYED  LAMB        .     . 

H.  R.  POORE 

J.  S.  FOY         .... 

.     141 

THE  WEEKLY  ROUTINE. 

HEADING    .     
SUNRISE 

W.  M.  DUNK        .        .       . 
H.  BOLTON  JONES 

H.  M.  SNYDER    .       .       . 
F.  >S.  KING 

.     142 
143 

HULDAH     .           

W.  T.  SMEDLEY 

F.  FRENCH 

.     149 

BAKING  DAY       

MARY   K.  TROTTER 

L.  FABER       .... 

.     151 

NEIGHBORS. 

HEADING'    

W.  M.  DUNK 

H.  M.  SNYDER            . 

.     152 

THE  MEETING-HOUSE  STLPS 
THE  TAILORESSES   .... 
THE  MINISTERS  WIFE    .     . 

SUNDAY. 

SUNDAY  MORNING   AT    THE 
MILL       

A.  B.  FROST         .       .       . 
C.  G.  BUSH     .... 

ALICE  BARBER  .    .    . 
L.  M'CUTCIIEON 

G.  P.  WILLIAMS       .      . 
EDITH    COOPER         .      . 
G.  P.  WILLIAMS       .       . 

G.  T.  ANDREW     . 

.     155 
.     159 
.     164 

.     165 

WEEDS  AT  THE  DOOR      .     . 

P.  E.  LUMMIS     . 

L.  FABER       .... 

.     167 

ON  THE  WAY  TO  CHURCH  . 
THE  BELOVED  PASTOR     .     . 

EMILY  PHILLIPS     .       . 
HOWARD  PYLE 

EDITH    COOPKR  .       .       . 
F.  FRENCH    .... 

.     169 
.     173 

SILENCE      

T.  DEWING     . 

L.  FABER       .... 

.     177 

OLD  TREES. 

HEADING                                .     . 

M.  II.  IREDELL  . 

L.  FABER       .... 

.     178 

OLD  TREES      .      
THE      WOODLAND     BEYOND 
THE  ORCHARD      .... 
THE  SAGGING  BRIDGE     .      . 

G.  H.  SMILLIE    .      .       . 

J.  APPLETON  BROWN   . 
F.  E.  LUMMIS     .      .       . 

FRED.  JUENGLING.       . 

J.  W.  LAUDERBACH      . 
EDITH    COOPER         .       . 

.     182 

.     187 
.     190 

10      CONTENTS,  WITH  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


ENGRAVE!!. 


THE  DISTRICT  SCHOOL. 


HEADING 

W.  M.  DUNK 

H.  M.  SNYDER     . 

,     .     191 

RIDING  BEHIND      .      .      . 
AT  RECESS 

.      R.  B.  BIUCH 
R.  B.  BIRCH 

.      A.  HAYMAN         .      .      , 
G.  T.  ANDREW    .    '  . 

,     .     193 
199 

OLD  FRIENDS 

MARY  K.  TROTTER 

L.  FABER 

204 

THE  COUNTRY  STORE. 

HEADING 

J.  PENNELL 

J.  DAL7IEL    . 

.     205 

ARRIVAL  OF  THE  MAIL 
THE  COUNTRY  STORE 

.       H.  R.   POORE        .       . 
A.  B.  FROST 

.      G.  P.  WILLIAMS 
F.  FRENCH   . 

.     .     209 
.     .     217 

THE  LIGHTS  ARE  OUT 

J.  PENNELL 

J.  W    LAUDERBACH 

220 

AFTER  THE  SUMMER. 

HEADING    

J.  PENNELL  . 

221 

THE  HUSKING-PARTY       . 
IN  THE   SITTING-ROOM    . 
SKELETON  TREES    .      .     . 

.      A.  B.  FROST  .      .      . 
.      MARY  K.  TROTTER 
.       R.  SWAIN  GIFFORD 

.      K.  CLEMENT         .      .      , 
.      H.  M.  SNYDER    .      . 
W.  MILLER    . 

.     .     223 
.     .     227 
.     .     229 

WINTER  PLEASURES. 

THE  FIRST  SNOW    .     .     . 

F.  B.  SCHELL 

F.  GEYER 

230 

A  NEIGHBORLY  VISIT      . 
THE  SPELLING-BEE      .      . 

.       A.  B.  FROST  .      .      . 
A.  B.  FROST  . 

.      FRED.  JUENGLING  .      . 
J.  P.  DAVIS 

.     235 

238 

CHEWING  THE  CUD     .     . 

.       HELEN    HOVENDEN 

L.  FABER       . 

.     241 

FINIS 

.       MARY  K.  TROTTER 

H.  M.  SNYDER    . 

.     243 

NEW   ENGLAND   BYGONES. 


THIS  illustrated  edition  of  New  England  Bygones  is  love's 
sorrowful  effort  to  embellish  a  grave. 

The  author  of  the  book  was,  in  her  own  personality,  far  more 
remarkable  than  any  work  of  her  hands ;  yet,  in  seeking  to 
perpetuate  her  memory  and  to  diffuse  the  fragrance  of  her  tlife 
after  the  gates  of  heaven  have  shut  us  out  from  her  presence, 
nothing  but  her  own  work  seems  to  us  in  any  measure  adequate. 

Ellen  Chapman  Hobbs  was  born  in  Wakefield,  New  Hamp- 
shire, April  30,  1831,  and  died  in  Philadelphia  May  29,  1881. 

No  person  had  a  better  right  than  she  to  speak  of  New 
England,  for  her  blood  and  being  came  to  her  through  all  the 
English  generations  that  have  sprung  from  New  England  soil. 
Maurice  Hobbs,  her  paternal  ancestor,  was  born  in  England  in 
1615,  and  went  thence  to  Hampton  about  1640.  His  Hampton 
farm  has  ever  since  remained  in  the  possession  of  his  family, 


14  INTRODUCTION. 

and  the  elm-tree  which  his  own  hands  planted,  still,  in  its 
giant  age,  shelters  his  homestead  and  gives  play-ground  and 
resting-place  to  children  of  his  name  and  lineage. 

Mrs.  Kollins's  paternal  grandmother  was  Sarah  Hilton,  a  de- 
scendant of  one  of  the  three  families  which  first  settled  in  New 
Hampshire  in  1623. 

On  her  mother's  side,  Mrs.  Rollins  was  descended  from  Edward 
Chapman,  of  Ipswich,  Massachusetts,  who  came  from  the  north- 
east of  England,  from  near  Hull  in  Yorkshire,  about  1640, — 
certainly  before  1642.  Ipswich  was  at  that  time  a  sort  of  Castle 
Garden,  and  emigrants  landing  there  from  old  Ipswich  in  Eng- 
land spread  over  Rowley,  Hampton,  and  all  the  region  round- 
about. So  it  came  to  pass  in  the  fulness  of  time  that  old 
Maurice  Hobbs,  leaving  his  home  headland  of  Lowestoft  Ness, 
crossed  the  wild,  wide  sea  and  got  himself  born  again  under  the 

N 

shadows  of  Green  Mountain,  in  the  pleasant  village  of  Effing- 
ham,  New  Hampshire,  in  the  person  of  Josiah  Hilton  Hobbs. 
And  six  years  later,  old  Edward  Chapman,  following  him  from 
the  Humber,  and  sailing  along  the  mouth  of  Ipswich  River  and 
past  the  Salisbury  marshes,  reappeared  inland  over  against  Effing- 
ham,  in  Parsonsfield,  Maine,  in  the  person  of  little  Rhoda  Chap- 
man :  and  the  two,  Josiah  and  Rhoda,  growing  into  comely 
youth's  estate,  and  falling  profoundly  in  love  with  each  other, 
married  and  set  up  their  family  roof- tree  in  Wakefield,  just 
below  Effingham,  where  they  lived  in  all  prosperity — with  some 
sharp  family  sorrow  but  with  great  family  happiness — till  Mr. 
Hobbs's  death. 


INTRODUCTION.  15 

Here  Ellen  was  born.  Her  father  was  a  lawyer,  highly  edu- 
cated and  prominent  in  his  profession ;  a  man  of  marked  ability, 
of  unusual  brilliancy,  with  the  temperament  of  genius  largely 
transmitted  to  his  daughter.  Her  grandparents  on  both  sides 
were  farmers,  and  it  was  at  their  homes,  especially  at  the  Effing- 
ham  farm,  that  she  shared  in  full  measure  the  rural  life  whose 
memory  lingered  through  all  her  after-years,  and  mellowed  finally 
into  the  short  and  swift  yet  infinitely  tender  and  restful  bene- 
diction of  her  books. 

Wakefield  itself  was  a  small,  secluded  New  Hampshire  village. 
Its  social  range  was  narrow,  as  needs  must  be  in  those  mountain 
hamlets  whither  railroad  and  telegraph  had  not  yet  penetrated. 
How  deep  and  fruitful  it  was  in  all  that  gives  richness  and 
color  to  life,  let  the  following  pages  attest.  In  her  father's  house 
Ellen  learned  to  place  a  high,  if  possible  an  exaggerated,  estimate 
on  intellectual  culture  and  scholarly  attainments.  Her  father, 
fond  and  proud  of  his  children,  exacted  from  them  prompt, 
logical  mental  activity,  and  Ellen  responded  with  a  vigor  and 
intelligence,  in  childish  proportion  equal  to  his  own.  In  the 
village,  and  in  her  grandparents'  homes,  she  saw  and  formed  a 
part  of  a  simpler  life,  as  healthful  and  sensible,  but  shaped  by 
the  emergencies  of  a  severer  fate  and  a  more  primitive  observance 
of  nature.  It  is  impossible  to  add  anything  to  the  vividness  of 
her  own  descriptions  of  her  child-life,— the  austere  yet  lofty 
and  pathetic  forms  by  which  it  was  surrounded,  the  picturesque, 
wild,  and  romantic  scenery  in  which  it  was  set,  and  which  she 
loved  with  an  ever-increasing  intensity.  Her  delicate  perception 


16  INTRODUCTION. 

» 

caught,  her  tenacious  memory  held,  and  her  exquisite  skill  re- 
produced those  early  impressions  with  the  minuteness  and  fidelity 
of  the  photograph,  with  the  idealism  and  the  immortality  of  art. 
The  "  Little  Benny"  of  the  following  pages  died  before  his  sister 
Ellen  was  eight  years  old,  but  their  mother,  still  living,  sorrow- 
ful yet  always  rejoicing,  bears  witness  to  the  faithfulness,  in 
every  ascertainable  detail,  of  all  his  sweet,  brief  story. 

Fortunate  in  her  birth,  Ellen  was  equally  fortunate  in  her 
schools.  At  the  excellent  village  academy — that  institution  so 
characteristic  of  New  England,  the  outgrowth  of  her  needs  and 
the  conservator  of  her  power — Ellen  was  the  pride  of  her  father, 
the  admiration  of  her  teachers,  the  soul  of  thoroughness  and 
truth.  Thence  she  was  sent,  after  a  single  term  at  Bradford, 
to  the  famous  old  Mary  Lyon  Seminary  at  Ipswich,  Massa- 
chusetts, where  she  completed  her  school  education  under  the 
care  and  personal  tuition  of  Rev.  John  Phelps  Cowles  and  Mrs. 
Eunice  Caldwell  Cowles.  These  loved  and  venerated  teachers 
still  live,  and  long  may  the  pen  lie  idle  that  must  one  day  trace 
their  noble  lineaments  through  the  mists  of  memory.  Not  often 
is  it  given  to  such  a  mind  as  Ellen's  to  come  under  the  tender 
training  of  two  such  minds  as  theirs, — minds  differing  as  widely 
from  each  other  as  one*  star  differeth  from  another  star  in  glory, 
but  always  two  stars,  brilliant,  high,  shining  only  with  a  more 
serene  and  soft,  but  not  less  splendid  lustre,  as  they 

"  Mount  to  their  zenith,  to  melt  into  heaven  ; 
No  waning  of  fire,  no  quenching  of  ray, 
But  rising,  still  rising,  when  passing  away." 


INTRODUCTION.  17 

Eager  to  learn,  with  a  strong  natural  love  of  literature,  un- 
affectedly reverent  of  great  thoughts,  perhaps  too  contemptuous 
of  small  things,  Ellen  swept  through  her  lessons  like  a  devouring 
flame.  There  was  for  her  no  such  word  as  task.  Study  was 
her  enthusiasm.  Recitation  was  its  indulgence.  Her  teacher 
was  the  priest  who  fed  the  sacred  fire.  Yet  she  shared  the 
innocent  follies  of  girlhood,  anathematized  fate  that  had  made 
her  not  beautiful, — at  least  in  her  own  eyes, — and  after  comical 
and  unrelenting  analysis  of  her  personal  shortcomings,  found 
merry  refuge,  by  heaven  knows  what  roundabout  feminine  rea- 
soning, in  the  apparently  inconsequent  fact  that  at  any  rate  her 
feet  were  smaller  xhan  her  hands  !  It  seems  incredible  that  such 
a  creature  of  air  and  fire  should,  even  in  her  immaturest  days, 
have  had  any  quarrel  with  a  body  which,  after  all,  served  her 
passing  well.  Slender,  delicate,  animated,  with  a  certain  abrupt 
grace  and  an  indescribable  spirituelle  archness  su'ggestive  of  an 
all-pervading  lambent  vitality,  I  think  no  one  ever  looked  into 
her  speaking  face  or  listened  to  her  low,  rich  voice  to  miss  any- 
thing of  beauty  or  to  feel  anything  but  sympathetic  admiration. 

For  a  few  months  after  leaving  school  she  occupied  herself 
with  teaching, — a  part  of  the  time  in  the  same  school  in  which 
she  had  studied,— loner  enousrh  to  fix  the  knowledge  she  had 

o  o  o 

gained  and  to  strengthen  and  mobilize  it  by  practical  application 
to  human  nature ;  long  enough  to  promise  entire  and  distin- 
guished success  had  she  chosen  to  devote  herself  to  that  influ- 
ential, arduous,  and  exacting  occupation.  But  fate  had  allotted 
to  her  other  work. 


18  INTRODUCTION. 

Among  her  father's  most  intimate  friends  in  Wakefield  were 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Daniel  G.  Eollins.  Their  son,  Edward  Ashton, 
was  a  few  years  older  than  Ellen,  and  the  two  made  mud-pies 
together  till  he  had  nearly  reached  the  august  age  of  seven 
years.  Then  his  father  moved  away  to  the  village  of  Great 
Falls,  and  her  father  moved  into  the  house  he  had  vacated.  But 
the  family  friendship  continued.  When  Ellen  journeyed  home 
from  Bradford  it  was  at  Mr.  Rollins 's  house  that  she  tarried  by 
the  way.  When  Ashton  Rollins  had  been  graduated  at  Dart- 
mouth, it  was  in  Wakefield,  under  "  Squire  Hobbs,"  that  he 
prosecuted  the  study  of  the  law,  and  while  he  studied  law  with 
the  father  naturally  enough  he  studied  love  with  the  daughter ; 
until,  in  the  house  in  which  he  was  born  and  in  which  her  girl- 
hood was  passed,  the  two  little  playmates  stood  up  and  were 
married  to  each  other,  and  fared  forth  into  the  great  world  to 
seek  their  fortune  together. 

I  suppose  she  married  honestly,  believing  herself  to  be  heartily 
in  love  with  her  husband ;  yet,  in  the  light  of  the  love  that 
grew  afterwards,  the  strong  absorbing  affection  that  was  as  much 
as  comprehensive  and  as  constant  a  necessity  of  her  life  as  the 
air  and  the  sunshine,  and  which  filled  her  and  held  her  till  death 
loosened  every  grasp, — if  even  death  loosened  that, — this  early 
love  seems  but  a  feeble,  girlish  preference,  hardly  more  than 
acquiescence  born  of  habit,  scarcely  worth  accounting  of.  Yet, 
perhaps,  it  had  to  be  there  for  a  beginning. 

Mr.  Rollins  still  lives,  and  of  him  I  must  say  next  to  nothing. 
If  he  dies  in  my  day,  I  will  give  him  such  a  setting-out  as  shall 


INTRODUCTION. 


19 


make 
him  glow 
even   in   his  grave, 

and  while  he  lives  it  must  be  said  that 
Ellen's  marriage  proved  to  be  so  extraordinary, 
it  so  shaped  and  sheltered,  fortified  and  devel- 
oped her  life,  that  to  leave  it  out  is  simply  to 


20  INTRODUCTION. 

say  nothing.  In  any  marriage  the  overwhelming  chances  were 
that  she  would  be  wretched,  the  only  saving  grace  being  that 
she  would  not  be  wretched  long.  That  her  actual  marriage 
promised  well  could  not  have  been  rationally  affirmed.  The 
youth  was  healthy,  manly,  buoyant,  full  of  humor.  The  maiden 
was  fragile,  nervous,  intense.  So  much  appeared  on  the  surface, 
and  for  all  that  appeared  on  the  surface  they  might  'quickly 
have  perished  of  mutual  impatience  and  disgust.  What  did  not 
appear  on  the  surface  was  the  deep,  abiding,  inexhaustible  adapta- 
bility of  each  to  the  other.  It  was  time  alone  which  showed 
that  fate,  for  once,  was  wise  and  kind.  A  woman  of  peculiar  and 
rarely  delicate  mould  was  consigned  to  a  man  who  not  only  loved 
her,  but  knew  how  to  cherish  her.  Where  she  was  weak  he  was 
strong,  with  strength  enough  for  both  and  to  spare.  If  she  was 
afraid,  there  was  no  attempt  to  reason  away  her  fears, — she  was 
protected.  If  she  had  a  whim  it  was  not  disregarded  as  a  whim, 
it  was  gratified.  Her  just  and  sensitive  nature  responded  to  this 
generosity.  Too  intent  and  earnest  to  be  wholly  fair,  she  had  been 
apt  to  think  that  mirthfulness  detracted  somewhat  from  dignity, 
and  it  took  her  a  little  while  to  learn  that  fun  and  frolic  do  not 
lower  the  life  they  immeasurably  lighten.  The  school-girl  liking, 
which  had  not  perhaps  gathered  in  the  full  measure  of  a  girl's 
ideal  respect  from  the  mud-pies  of  childhood  and  the  lake  pic- 
nics of  subsequent  student  intimacy,  deepened  into  a  more  than 
ideal  confidence  as  she  found  her  husband  true  to  every  public 
and  private  trust.  She  saw  him  advance  in  the  regard  of  men. 
She  saw  herself  surrounded — it  is  no  small  thing — with  all  the 


INTRODUCTION.  21 

comforts  of  material  prosperity.  Every  aspiration  of  her  nature 
was  fed  by  his  all-pervading  fidelity.  Not  only  was  her  mind 
respected,  but  her  very  caprices  were  cherished  with  the  hap- 
piest commingling  of  tenderness  and  raillery.  Her  ambition 
was  satisfied  by  his  outward  success,  her  tastes  were  cultivated 
by  his  constant  assistance,  her  heart  rested  on  his  entire  devo- 
tion. So  her  marriage,  which  began  like  any  marriage,  only 
with  greater  hazard  than  most  because  of  her  greater  suscep- 
tibility, grew  into  the  identity  of  interest,  the  acuteness  of  sym- 
pathy, the  love  which  is  self-love  of  a  perfect  union. 

"  Mamma,"  drawled  one  of  her  young  children,  after  we  had 
been  listening  to  a  picturesque  and  entertaining  diatribe  against 
a  woman  who  had  been  bemoaning  her  sacrifice  at  going  into 
the  country  for  her  husband's  health.  "  Mamma,  would  you 
sacrifice  us  to  papa?" 

"Sacrifice  you!"  she  cried,  the  lightnings  of  her  wrath  still 
flashing  through  her  gentle  voice  and  die-away  manner,  "  I 
would  see  you  all  in  Tophet  for  your  father's  sake!" 

And  notwithstanding  the  badinage  it  was  essential  truth,  and 
her  children  "  knew  their  place." 

But  while  and  where  she  loved  she  made.  Where  a  man 
might  have  stooped  she  held  him  up  by  the  compelling  virtue 
of  her  own  erectness.  Exacting  to  the  uttermost  farthing,  from 
those  who  came  into  her  sphere,  all  mental  rectitude  and  all 
moral  force,  she  made  it  impossible  for  one  to  live  with  her  and 
not  live  at  one's  best.  Even  for  such  as  were  brought  into  but 
slight  contact,  it  went  hard  with  the  ignoble.  She  had  not  an 


22  INTRODUCTION. 

atom  of  that  amiability  which  wraps  good  and  evil  alike  in  the 
mantle '  of  inane  praise.  She  had  the  awful  gift  of  discernment, 
— she  saw  clearly.  She  had  the  rare  gift  of  expression, — she 
spoke  accurately.  In  her  insatiable  craving  for  the  best  she 
'Sometimes  failed  to  remember  that  we  are  dust.  She  was  so 
little  compounded  of  dust  herself  that  she  was  apt  to  forget 
its  real  ponderosity,  and  demanded  wings  where  it  was  much 
that  the  poor,  weighted  human  creature  managed  to  walk.  Her 
intellectual  apprehension  was  so  clear,  her  moral  perception  so 
acute,  that  she  could  not  fail  to  discern  and  analyze  every  man, 
woman,  and  child  who  came  before  her.  No  external  condition 
of  theirs  affected  her  clear  insight.  Wealth  or  poverty,  igno- 
rance or  culture,  modesty  or  self-assertion, — nothing  veiled  from 
her  penetrating  eyes  the  character  that  lay  beneath.  She  divined 
without  purpose,  simply  because  it  was  in  her  to  divine.  She 
described,  she  dramatized,  she  improvised,  because  she  was  born 
an  artist.  In  her  books  she  has  dealt  with  the  past,  and  has 
naturally  seen  it  through  a  golden  haze;  so  we  have  chiefly 
soft,  tender,  poetic  effects.  Scarcely  appears  there  at  all  the 
pungent  sarcasm,  the  mental  impatience,  the  delicately  fierce 
invective,  the  odd  imagery,  the  startling  combinations  and  ex- 
aggeration, the  radical  dislodgments  which  joined  with  her  inex- 
haustible benevolence  to  make  her  conversation  and  her  letters 
altogether  fascinating.  Her  commonest  talk  was  piquant  and 
forcible.  Her  hastiest  note  was  elegant.  The  undress  of  her 
soul  was  tidy.  The  whole  habit  of  her  mind  was  scholarly. 
She  was  therefore  the  most  unpretentious  of  women. 


INTRODUCTION.  23 

Happily,  her  severe  exactingness  was  balanced  by  a  boundless 
beneficence, — more  than  balanced,"  overweighted, — for  where  she 
had  once  befriended  it  seemed  impossible  for  her  to  blame. 
Withal,  her  whole  nature  was  informed  with  a  subtile,  feminine 
gentleness,  so  that  even  in  her  strongest  moral  repulsions  she 
was  winsome.  Her  sharpest  disapproval  was  uttered  in  the 
voice  of  the  cooing  dove, — as  low  and  soft.  She  revolted  against 
religious  and  social  convention  with  an  appealing  charm  that 
made  revolt  seem  more  attractive  than  accord. 

The  history  of  her  external  life  is  marked  by  the  same  events 
as  that  of  most  women, — the  birth  and  death  of  children,  the 
requirements  of  her  husband's  profession.  The  early  years  of 
their  marriage  were  passed  in  Great  Falls,  New  Hampshire. 
Here  little  Willard  Ashton  was  born  and  died,  here  little  Marion 
was  born,  and  here  little  Margaret  died.  The  boy  looked  with 
too  questioning  eyes  on  the  unanswering  world,  lisped  too  soon 
his  little  loves  and  thoughts,  and  died  when  only  ten  months 
old.  Marion,  sturdy,  independent,  self-willed,  a  little  soul  prop- 
erly ensphered  in  the  wildness  and  wantonness  of  nature,  yet 
loving  books  with  unquenchable  ardor ;  full  of  poetry,  alive 
with  individuality,  daring  and  defiant,  with  her  father's  strength, 
and  her  mother's  intensity, — Marion  kept  up  the  fight  and  the 
fun  for  ten  blithe  years,  but  perished  at  last  in  the  malaria  of 
Washington.  Little  Margaret,  little  perfect  human  flower,  un- 
folded her  tender  life  only  just  enough  to — 

"  Smell  sweet  and  blossom  in  the  dust.'f 
Tokens  of  these  children  fall  soft  and  fragrant,  like  petals  from 


24  INTRODUCTION. 

fresh-plucked  roses,  all  along  their  mother's  after-paths.  Espe- 
cially were  they  ministering  spirits  summoned  to  comfort  the  sor- 
rowful. To  mourning  mothers  this  mother  revealed  the  grief  she 
hid  from  the  world,  sometimes  with  almost  too  stern  a  repression. 

"  I  think,"  she  wrote  to  one  such,  "  of  your  house  with  his 
helplessness  and  daintiness  and  beautiful  promise  gone  out  of  it; 
and  I  know,  because  I  have  known  just  what  a  forlorn  weight  is 
tugging  at  your  heart,  and  how  hard  it  will  be  to  get  back  again 
to  the  vocations  and  interests  which  occupied  your  life  before  this 
glorified  child  of  yours  got  interwoven  with  the  web  of  your  life. 

"  You  will  never  do  that.  'You  have  gotten  on  to  a  higher 
plane.  Henceforth  this  little  child  will  walk  with  you,  be  grow- 
ing ever  and  you  growing  with  him.  His  early  crown  of  angel- 
hood, close  upon  your  glorious  crown  of  motherhood,  has  made 
you  sure  when  you  die  of  a  child's  welcome  into  heaven.  If 
I  die  to-night  three  of  mine  are,  I  trust,  safe  before  me.  .  .  . 
Dear  little  Margie,  I  can  never  get  away  from  the  soft  touch 
of  her  little  hands.  And  next  to  that  I  am  moved  by  a  look 
she  gave  me  one  morning.  Dear  little  things !  They  leave 
but  few  tokens,  but  such  as  they  have  take  hold. 

"  Of  one  thing  be  sure :  that  the  memory  of  your  child  will 
make  your  whole  life  richer  and  fuller  and  happier.  By  slow 
degrees  there  will  come  to  you  the  second  and  serener  joy  in 
him  of  a  second  possession;  .  .  .  but  after  all,  dear  S.,  the  facts 
are  terribly  stern,  and'  only  made  tolerable  by  other  facts  just 
as  stern, — that  "it  is  only  for  a  little,  when  the  same  shall  have 
passed  upon  us  all." 


INTRODUCTION.  25 

And  to  another : 

"  Let  me  tell  you  how  out  of  this  triple  loss  there  has  come 
to  us  a  thrice  blessed  possession  of  joy  and  consolation.  These 
children  are  not  dea,d  to  us.  The  great  universe  holds  them, 
and  somehow  they  seem  in  being  to  have  expanded  to  the  whole 
measure  of  the  universe.  They  are  never  absent  from  us.  Where 
we  go  they  go.  We  know  them  just  as  we  always  did  by  name. 
They  help  educate  our  other  children  ;  we  think  of  them  always 
as  progressing  and  surpassing  in  acquisition  all  possible  earthly 
capacity  of  those  they  have  left  behind.  Above  all,  we  think 
of  them  as  waiting  to  meet  us."  - 

And  still  to  another : 

"  You  will  soon  begin  to  marvel  how  this  event  shortens  time, 
how  it  bridges  the  way,  and  how  much  more  precious  it  really 
is  to  follow  after  than  to  go  before. 

"  Perhaps  you  wonder  at  my  writing,  but  truly  such  ex- 
pression is  a  sort  of  second  nature  with  me.  So  much  riches 
have  I  in  heaven  that  this  world  has  not  a  shadow  of  hold 
upon  me.  My  seeming  indifference  is  my  way  of  expressing 
the  intensifying  of  so  much  of  my  life  by  the  sublime  mystery 
of  death. 

"  If  I  am  poor  in  such  works  as  are  seen,  I  am  rich  in  sym- 
pathy with  the  bereaved,  and  out  of  that  store,  which  is  perennial, 
I  offer  much  to  yon." 

The  loss  of  these  children  loosened  her  hold  upon  her  other 
children.  She  loved  them  not  less,  but  she  had  no  sense  of 
security  in  them.  She  watched  over  them  with  a  fidelity  that 


26  INTRODUCTION. 

found  nothing  insignificant.  Their  studies,  their  diversions, 
their  companions,  their  clothes,  their  accomplishments  and  affec- 
tations, the  caprice  of  the  moment,  the  plans  for  their  future, — 
everything  that  pertained  to  her  children  was  her  daily  and 
hourly  care.  In  finally  establishing  her  home,  in  ordering  her 
house,  in  all  her  fashioning  and  furbishing,  in  her  foreign  travel, 
her  summer  sojourning,  her  winter  work,  the  one  thing  she  had 
in  view  was  the  advantage  of  her  children.  She  arranged  play- 
rooms, built  conservatories,  held  classes,  cultivated  flowers,  took 
journeys,  painted  pictures,  wrote  books  for  one  special  purpose, 
for  one  assured  public, — Lucy,  Louise,  and  Philip.  And  with  her 
almost  fierce  devotion  she  had  a  marvellous  gift  for  overlooking 
non-essentials.  She  was  microscopic  in  places  where  some  mothers 
are  telescopic,  but  she  was  equally  telescopic  where  others  are 
microscopic.  She  knew  how  every  moment  of  her  children's 
time  was  occupied ;  but  when  she  had  sent  them  into  the  large, 
open,  country  yard  to  play,  she  expected  them  to  have  sense 
enough  to  look  out  for  themselves  that  they  were  not  run  over 
by  the  country  wagons.  And  the  little  toddlers  justified  her 
faith,  though  the  neighbors  were  sometimes  horrified  at  their 
narrow  escapes.  She  had  not  a  moment's  time  or  strength  to 
posture  her  children  for  artistic  or  sentimental  admiration,  nor 
had  she,  it  may  be  added,  any  to  spare  upon  other  people's 
children.  She  seemed  sometimes  indifferent,  almost  scornful, 
when  she  had  exhausted  her  small  store  of  strength  upon  the 
essentials,  and  took  refuge  in  abstraction  from  any  draft  made 
upon  her  for  the  unimportant.  She  would  not  lose  the  hastening 


INTRODUCTION.  -27 

glory  of  a  sunset  on  the  hills,  though  each  baby  were  setting 
up  a  separate'  and  sonorous  howl  in  the  carriage  over  some 
childish  quarrel. 

Mr.  Rollins's  business  took  them  to  Washington  for  some 
years,  where  he  held  the  various  offices  which  lead  up  to  and 
include  the  Commissionership  of  Internal  Revenue.  The  position 
was  not  much  to  her  liking,  -and  she  did  not  take  over-kindly 
to  her  Washington  life.  Her  time  and  observation  were  not  so 
fully  absorbed  by  her  family  that  she  did  not  note  the  social 
and  political  world.  She  wrote,  as  she  had  written  occasionally 
for  many  years,  letters  for  the  newspapers,  all  of  which  were 
widely  read  and  well  received. 

The  later,  perhaps  the  serener,  possibly  the  happiest  years 
of  Mrs.  Rollins's  life  were  passed  in  Philadelphia.  The  mild 
climate  suited  her  feeble  physical  power.  Her  summers  were 
spent  on  the  sea-shore  or  among  her  native  mountains,  and  her 
own  beautiful  home  was  not  so  deeply  embosomed  in  the  city 
as  to  banish  sunshine  and  the  birds.  At  her  chamber  window 
she  could  hear  the  winds  sighing  among  the  pines,  and  the 
light  came  to  her  broken  and  shimmering  through  flowers  and 
greenery.  Some  months  of  European  travel  she  was  strong 
enough  thoroughly  to  enjoy,  and  the  Centennial  Exhibition 
brought  the  world's  treasures  to  her  own  doors.  How  wide 
and  glad  those  doors  swung  open  to  all  her  friends  through 
that  gala  season  there  are  hundreds  to  remember.  Everything 
she  had  strength  to  enjoy  she  enjoyed,  and  the  rest  she  made 
up  by  the  enjoyment  of  others.  Her  hospitality  never  knew 


28  INTRODUCTION. 

bounds  for  those  she  loved,  though  she  was  a  great  deal  more 
rigid,  I  trust,  than  Heaven  in  excluding  those  of  whom  she  did 
not  approve.  In  these  sunny,  tranquil  years  her  soul  sprang 
up  in  all  sorts  of  experiment.  She  studied,  taught,  embroidered, 
painted,  wrote  with  fresh  zest.  She  renewed  and  enlarged  her 
youthful  acquaintance  with  languages;  read  history  and  litera- 
ture with  young  girls,  the  comrades  of  her  daughters;  sewed 
daisies  and  daffodils  and  peacocks'  feathers  all  over  her  house 
till  the  muscles  of  her  right  arm  gave  out;  covered  jars  and 
screens  and  plaques  with  numberless  lilies  and  cresses, — since 
she  wrought  only  for  love,  and  of  the  great  world  of  possi- 
bilities she  loved  to  paint  only  the  life  of  still  water.  It  was 
as  if  some  unseen,  irresistible  force  urged  her  on,  unwitting,  to 
surround  the  husband  and  children  whom  she  was  so  soon  to 
leave  with  the  visible  tokens  of  her  presence. 

In  many  ways  this  strange  urgency  impelled  her.  She  who 
had  laughingly,  but  effectively,  resisted  all  beseeching  for  her 
portrait,  who  was  too  timid  to  venture  alone  into  the  great  city 
which  lay  only  just  beyond  her  garden  gate,  on  that  last  winter 
proposed  the  portrait  herself,  selected  her  artist,  and  climbed, 
sometimes  unaccompanied,  into  his  sky-studio  and  gave  him  as 
many  sittings  as  he  required.  A  little  stone,  which  Marion  had 
held  in  her  hand  when  she  died,  was  taken  .from  its  box  and 
made  into  a  seal  for  her  son,  with  suitable  and  suggestive  in- 
scription and  appropriate  setting.  A  copy  of  Appleton's  Ency- 
clopaedia she  sent  to  the  little  library  of  her  native  village,  and, 
what  was  most  unlike  herself,  she  consented  that  her  husband 


INTRODUCTION. 


29 


should  insert  her  name  as  the  donor.  While  yet  in  her  usual 
health  and  with  no  visible  reason  for  expecting  anything  but 
length  of  days,  she  destroyed  all  but  two  or  three  of  her  pub- 
lished Washington  letters,  on  the  ground  that  their  value  had 


been   abated   by  the   lapse  of   time   and  she  did  not  wish   her 
friends  to  be  bothered  with  them  after  she  was  gone. 

Her  last  work  was  her  books.  She  wrote  them  rapidly, 
eagerly,  for  the  king's  business  required  haste.  The  leisure  of 
her  last  two  years  was  giyen  to  them  at  home  and  at  the  sea- 


30  INTRODUCTION. 

side.  The  second  was  begun  as  soon  as  the  first  was  finished, 
and  withal  she  took  not  haste  enough,  lor  an  echo  of  sweet  songs 
fell  brokenly  from  her  dying  lips,  never  to  be  caught  by  voice 
or  lute. 

Death  came  to  her  stealthily,  or  shall  I  say,  benignantly  ? 
With  increasing  weakness,  but  without  pain  or  foreboding,  she 
went  gently  down  to  the  gates  of  death.  And  when  they  opened, 
behold,  it  was  not  death  but  life.  In  the  last  paragraph  of  her 
last  book  she  had  written : 

"  There  is  a  chamber  window  out  of  which  in  childhood  I  used 
to  watch  the  sunset-gilded  crown  of  Red  Mountain,  and  .while 
sitting  there  I  have  often  thought  that  in  the  afterglow  of  some 
fortunate  day  I  would  like  to  pass  out  of  earth  into  heaven." 

And  it  was  so.  In  the  early  afterglow  of  her  most  fortunate 
day  she  passed  from  languor  into  life. 

Her  religion  had  always  been  a  principle,  never  a  barrier, 
never  a  bond.  She  had  small  respect  for  forms.  She  had  in- 
difference to  forms  out  of  which  the  inspiration  had  vanished. 
Death  justified  all  her  instincts.  Faith  upheld  her,  and  let 
every  shrinking  human  creature  who  may  read  these  words 
gather  courage ;  for  this  weak,  timid  woman  went  out  alone  into 
the  great  unknown  without  a  fear. 

Her  last  day  came  to  her  unwarned.  Her  physician,  from 
an  experience  of  nearly  half  a  century,  advised  that  nothing  be 
said  to  herself  or  her  children  of  her  peril.  The  night  had 
been  not  untroubled.  In  her  dreams  and  her  talk  as  she  slept 
she  was  wandering  in  'the  White  Mountains.  The  doctor's  early 


INTRODUCTION.  31 

arrival  found  her  awake  and  surprised.  Of  her  nurse  she  asked 
what  was  the  hour,  and  who  had  summoned  the  doctor,  and 
immediately  responded  to  the  answer,  "  Then  I  am  going  to 
die,  and  I  want  to  see  my  children." 

Thus  all  barriers  were  removed.  With  entire  calmness  and 
clearness,  and  with  a  well-defined  regard  to  the  needs  of  each, 
to  each  dear  child  alone  she  gave  Jast  words  which  can  only 
be  cherished  in  their  inmost  hearts.  To  a  few  friends  she 
spoke  a  calm  and  loving  farewell.  The  greater  part  of  her  last 
day  she  was  alone  with  her  husband,  and  through  him  to  her 
hosts  of  friends  she  sent  parting  messages.  Her  own  family 
and  her  husband's  family,  hardly  less  dear,  she  remembered, 
name  by  name,  with  tenderest  greeting.  Everything  was  real 
and  confident.  It  was  exactly  and  only  as  if  she  were  setting 
out  a  little  earlier  than  they,  on  a  journey  which  all  would  take, 
to  a  land  where  love  awaited  her.  She  talked  of  the  past  and 
the  present  as  well  as  of  the  future,  and  her  language  was  never 
more  vigorous,  her  directions  were  never  more  clear.  She  desired 
that  a  book  left  at  the  house  by  a  friend  be  returned,  and  that 
an  account  which  she  had  overpaid  be  remembered.  She  desig- 
nated tokens  to  be  given  to  special  friends  in  her  name,  and 
sundry  of  her  own  benefactions  to  be  continued  after  her  death. 
In  no  one  word  did  she  betray  fear,  regret,  or  apprehension. 
For  weeks  the  habit  of  her  life  had  so  increased  upon  her  that 
she  could  hardly  bear  to  let  her .  husband  go  out  of  her  sight ; 
but  this  last  day,  as  if  she  wished  to  try  a  little  what  separation 
would  be  before  it  was  enforced,  she  urged  him  to  go  away  for 


32  INTRODUCTION. 

rest.  To  this  peculiarly  dependent  woman,  who  for  years  had 
never  been  anywhere  without  him,  who  did  not  think  she  could 
go  anywhere,  even  to  her  own  mother's  house,  without  him, — 
to  her  was  given  such  new  courage  and  strength  that  she  went 
down  unshrinking  alone  into  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death. 
"  God  is  indeed  merciful,"  she  said,  "  that  he  has  made  me  wish 
to  go." 

"  Ash  ton,  there  is  nothing,  after  all,  in  this  world  to  really 
help  us  but  Christ  and  his  cross." 

"  Yes,  Ellen,  from  science  and  philosophy  and  everything  else, 
we  must  all  come  back  to  the  cross." 

"  No,"  she  answered,  quickly.     "  No,  go  forward  to  it  rather." 

"  I  am  not  so  devotional  as  you,  but  my  faith  is  as  strong. 
It  began  in  my  childhood,  and  I  have  clung  to  it  always." 

"  At  a  time  like  this,  omnipotence  is  nothing,  omniscience  is 
nothing  ;  the  love  of  Christ  is  everything.  Ah  !  how  that  sweet, 
patient  face  of  his  looks  out  from  all  the  picture-galleries  of 
Europe,  out  of  Holman  Hunt's  picture  down-stairs — looks  into 
my  very  soul ! 

"  Tell  mother  that  I  will  be  waiting  for  her,  and  J.  and  H. 
and  F.  and  M.  that  I  will  come  down  to  meet  them,  and  give 
my  love  to  all  your  family.  I  have  done  with  the  world  and 
will  say  no  more." 

When  her  lips  had  grown  rigid,  so  that  she  could  no  longer 
frame  a  sentence,  a  whispered  word  would  indicate  the  direction 
of  her  thoughts.  "  Rock,"  she  hardly  more  than  breathed,  and 
"  The  shadow  of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary  land"  and  "  Lead  me 


INTRODUCTION.  33 

to  the  rock  that  is  higher  than  I"  would  be  repeated  to  her,  and 
.no  child  was  ever  more  manifestly  soothed  and  refreshed  by 
mother-words  than  she  by  the  wonderful  mother-words  of  heaven. 

Her  children  were  watching  and  praying  in  the  library  that 
their  mother  might  live  to  go  to  heaven  on  Sunday  morning. 
By  her  they  sent  their  love  to  Willie,  to  Marion,  and  to  Margaret, 
and  she  promised  them  she  would  not  fail  to  carry  it. 

Her  breathing  became  labored.  She  had  no  pain,  but  great 
weariness. 

"  Marie,  Marie,"  she  softly  said. 

"  Marie  ?"  repeated  the  nurse. 

"  No,"  she  answered  clearly,  "  not  Marie,  but  Marion."  And 
raising  her  right  arm  and  beckoning  with  her  hand  and  index 
finger,  as  one  calls  to  him  another  whom  he  sees,  she  continued, 
"  Marion,  my  daughter,  come,  come!" 

She  spoke  no  more  and  suffered  no  more,  but  went  so  gently 
that  love  itself  could  not  know  the  moment  of  her  departure. 

GAIL  HAMILTON. 


ETCHINGS 


N  Northern  New  England,  in  the  traditional  good 
old  times,  to  own  a  house  was  a  condition  of  thrifty 
citizenship.  For  this  a  young  couple  would  toil  early 
and  late  with  heroic  self-denial.  No  matter  how  humble  this 
home  was,  it  must  be  one's  own.  When  a  man  married,  he  at 
once  set  up  a  household,  and,  as  he  needed,  he  let  out  his  four 
walls,  and  seamed  and  patched  them.  His  barns  ran  over,  and 
he  added  to  them.  He  planted  an  orchard,  and  set  out  poplars 
before  his  door.  The  roughness  of  toil  was  ground  into  his 
bones  and  muscles.  He  -grew  hard-featured  and  hard-fisted, 
while  his  wife  grew  jaded  and  angular.  Their  children  became 
like  them.  They  were  all  weather-changed  into  a  kind  of 
peculiar  peasantry,  a  readily  recognized  product  of  their  con- 
dition,— the  busy,  honest,  persistent,  hopeful,  helpful  New  Eng- 


36  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

land  farmer's  family.  The  visible  signs  of  their  labors  were 
hardly  more  than  an  orchard  of  straggling  trees ;  the  annual 
rotation  of  crops;  and  the  daily  spilling-out  from  the  doors  of 
family-life.  It  was  a  most  simple  living,  easily  described  with 
few  words  ;  but  the  core  of  progressive  culture,  the  nursery  of 
strong  character. 

Their  houses  and  their  surroundings  were  such  as  might  be 
expected.  The  apple-trees,  which  they  set  out,  bore  crabbed 
fruit,  and  were  of  little  value ;  but,  as  a  feature  of  farm-life, 
they  served  their  purpose.  There  were  always  good  apples 
enough  for  home  use.  The  names  of  some  of  them,  given  by 
accident,  became  household  words ;  and,  when  they  had  lived 
their  life  out,  the  excellence  of  their  fruits  passed  into  tradi- 
tion. I  could  walk  to-day  to  the  very  spot  where  stood  Farmer 
M.'s  Long-nose  and  Pudding-sweet, — two  ragged,  stalwart  trees, 
famous  in  the  district.  The  mildly-sour  Long-nose  tasted  best 
when  just  picked  from  the  greensward,  and  the  mealy  Pudding- 
sweet  when  sucked  by  the  eater  while  sitting  upon  a  low-lying 
branch  of  the  tree  which  bore  it. 

An  old  orchard  is  a  friendly  place.  Wherever  you  stumble 
upon  one  the  spirit  of  homelikeness  and  past  occupation  are 
with  it.  If  there  are  no  house-walls  to  be  seen,  you  are  sure 
to  find  near  by  the  rubbish  of  them,  by  which  you  know  that 
once  the  simple  processes  of  farm-life  went  daily  on  under  its 
trees.  The  jagged,  sprouting  old  stumps  are  the  record  of  it. 

On  the  whole,  what  farm  appendage  was  better  in  possession, 
is  better  in  memory,  than  its  riotous  old  orchard?  It  was,  in 


KTCHINGti.  ;J,7 

spring,  a  rose-garden,  which  scented  the  air  with  attar,  and 
filled  the  landscape  with  a  transient  glory.  In  summer,  standing 
in  the  foreground  of  its  overtopping  verdure,  the  houses  let  out 
into  it  the  homeliness  of  their  vocations.  Then  into  the  pos- 
tures and  implements  of  housewives,  and  the  work  they  did, 
passed  the  glamour  of  its  growth  and  its  sunshine.  In  it,  and 
by  it,  people  and  things,  otherwise  unattractive,  became  beautiful 
incidents  and  accidents  of  it.  You  have  not  forgotten  the  bare- 
armed  women,  spreading  their  linen  to  bleach  ;  pans  scalding  in 
the  sunshine ;  the  bee-hives ;  the  grindstone ;  the  mowers  whetting 
their  scythes,  and  other  loose-lying  debris  of  farm-work ;  the 
picturesque  absorption  of  the  orchard's  summer-life.  You  hold 
fast  in  memory  some  tree,  or  trees,  the  ripening  and  gradual 
gathering  of  whose  fruits  were  happy  features  of  your  childhood. 

The  orchard  almost  always  started  from  the  back-door  of  a 
farm-house,  where  burdocks  and  other  .rank-smelling  weeds  grew 
and  waste  waters  trickled  out;  but  it  stretched  into  a  verdure, 
the  sweetness  and  cleanliness  and  tenderness  of  which  could 
only  be  found  under  its  trees.  Here  night-dews  lingered,  and 
apples  mellowed  toothsomely  under  the  matted  grass.  Here  was 
the  couch  of  the  tired  laborer  and  the  play-ground  of  children, 
who  wore  ruts  in  its  sod,  and  half  lived  in  summer  upon  its  forage. 

The  Lombardy  poplars,  which  were  planted  in  front  of  these 
earlier  farm-houses,  were  stiff,  compact,  erect  trees,  always  ag- 
gressive upon  the  landscape.  They  were  fast-growing,  but  of 
short-lived  vigor,  and  died  by  early  though  slow  decay.  They 
\vnv  perhaps  the  natural  outcrop  of  a  generation  which  began 


38  NEW  ENGLAND   BYGONES. 

and  ended  with  shoulder  to  the  plough,  and  hand  to  the  distaff; 
whose  chief  literature  was  the  Bible ;  whose  law  was  truth,  and 
whose  highest  recreation  was  the  rest  of  the  Sabbath.  You  still 
see,  here  and  there,  these  aged  poplars  scattered  through  New 
England.  They  are  ghosts  of  trees,  half  dead,  often  isolated; 
yet,  should  search  be  made,  sure  to  be  found  standing  steadfast 
by  the  site  of  an  ancient  homestead.  Often  they  linger  in  front 
of  a  square,  flat-roofed  old  house,  given  over,  like  themselves, 
to  decay;  both  come  down  from  a  long  dead  generation.  They 
have  a  way  of  lifting  themselves  up  and  standing  out  from  a 
landscape.  One  sees  them  from  afar,  like  index-fingers,  pointing 
backwards,  not  without  pathos,  to  the  past. 

If  the  farmers  who  planted  these  trees  seemed  hard  and  stern, 
it  was  owing  largely  to  their  resolute  fidelity  to  the  necessities 
of  their  vocation.  They  were  pioneers ;  the  hewers  out  of  a 
path  to  a  broader  culture.  They  were  not  unlike  their  own 
hills,  which,  though  rugged  and  steep,  were,  at  the  same  time, 
the  glory  of  the  landscape.  They  loved  the  homes  to  which 
they  had  given  the  richness  and  strength  of  their  days.  That 
power  of  association  which  comes  from  dwelling  long  in  a  spot, 
and  which  clings  eternally  to  it,  took  deep  root  in  them.  At 
the  same  time,  there  went  out  from  them,  into  their  walls  and 
furnishings,  that  sweetness  of  life-expression  given  to  them  by 
long  use.  Time  mellowed  their  homes ;  scars  enriched  them ; 
necessity  added  to  them, — until,  from  very  bare  beginnings, 
grew  the  quaintly  furnished,  picturesque,  simply  beautiful  old 
farm-houses. 


ETCHINGS. 


39 


Very  much  of  the  thrift  and  honesty  peculiar  to  the  New 
England  race  has  flowed  through  this  primitive  and  sturdy  stock. 
Looking  back,  I  see  men 
and  women  whose  characters 
were  of  the  best;  the  lines 
of  which,  like  etchings,  are 
sharp  and  suggestive. 

The  last  time  I  ever  saw 
old  Farmer  M.  he  was  firmly 
grasping  a  pitchfork,  which 
was  planted  in  his  load;  and, 
from  his  cart,  was  giving 
directions  to  half  a  score 


of  stalwart  laborers.     His  hat  was  weather-beaten ;  his  garments 
were  coarse  and  ill-fitting.     To  one  unused  to  country  life,  he 


40  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

would  have  seemed  a  rough  old  man, — a  common  farmer;  the 
worn-out  owner  of  a  few  acres  and  a  little  money,  gotten  by 
working  while  others  slept;  by  self-denial  when  indulgence  would 
have  seemed  a  virtue;  one  who  doubled  the  toils  of  summer, 
and  cheated  himself  out  of  the  rest  of  winter, — a  sort  of  barren 
waif,  almost  cast  out  from  one  century  upon  the  shore  of 
another. 

Altogether  otherwise  this  man  seemed  to  me.  I  had  known 
him  from  my  earliest  childhood.  He  had  done  faithfully  the 
work  which  had  been  given  him  to  do.  Whatever  lay  within 
its  scope  and  possibilities  he  had  accomplished.  Whatever  of 
dignity  could  be  -given,  by  truth  and  industry  and  self-respect, 
to  a  farmer's  life,  had  been  given  to  his.  Forty  years  before 
he  had  been  a  rustic  king  in  his  fields.  He  was  a  king  still, — 
this  old  man  of  eighty-odd  years.  There  was  the  same  stamp 
of  force  upon  him.  He  was  old  age  wiser  than  youth ;  decay 
more  potent  than  growth;  weakness  dictating  to  strength.  Time 
had  ploughed  over  him;  but,  if  his  hand  had  lost  its  cunning, 
his  eye  had  not  lost  its  fire.  If  his  body  was  wellnigh  spent, 
his  intellect  was  unabated.  As  he  stood,  poised  upon  the  fruits 
of  his  harvest,  ruling,  with  positive  will  and  clear  judgment,  his 
laborers  of  a  later  generation,  he  seemed  like  the  old  hero  that 
he  was;  a  half-defiant  conqueror  over  circumstance,  brave  and 
resistant  to  the  last.  It  was  grand  to  see  him,  this  half-wild 
son  of  nature,  standing  clear-cut  against  the  blue  sky,  held  up 
by  the  instruments  and  adjuncts  of  a  life  of  toil ;  the  wrinkled, 
aged  harvester,  tossed  out  at  his  last,  with  a  sort  of  fierce  ges- 


ETCHINGS.  41 

ture,  into  this  transient,  hut  suggestive,  picture.  Clad  in  home- 
spun, roughened  by  toil,  with  no  acquired  graces  of  speech, 
there  was  yet  about  him  a  certain  expression  of  inborn  dignity 
which  compelled  respect.  His  eye  was  piercing;  his  voice  in- 
cisive ;  his  words  few  ;  his  manner  forcible.  He  was  an  eager, 
honest,  successful  man,  who  had  taken  and  held  life  by  siege 
and  storm. 

This  farmer's  story  will  be  read  hereafter  in  character;  not 
in  books.  It  would  be  tame  written  out,  the  daily  life  of  this 
man,  who,  through  all  his  working  years,  tilled  the  soil  in  sum- 
mer and  split  rocks  in  winter.  But  by  and  by  some  famous  man 
will  have  inherited  good  blood  from  this  farmer,  who,  in  his 
plain  village  life,  was  known  for  his  uprightness,  his  thrift,  his 
intelligence,  and  his  sagacity.  He  will  be  proud  of  this  an- 
cestor, whom  the  bad  feared  and  the  good  honored ;  of  this 
man,  whose  nobility  of  nature  gave  breadth  to  the  narrowness 
of  his  calling.  Some  woman,  with  more  than  ordinary  beauty, 
may  owe  it  to  this  old  man,  whose  sinews,  given  early  to  the 
tuition  of  nature,  grew  into  symmetrical  stature;  and  whose 
fresh  young  features  were  hardened,  by  care  and  exposure,  into 
an  expression  of  honest  and  heroic  audacity. 

S.,  the  blacksmith,  who  shod  horses  by  day  and  after  night- 
fall reasoned  with  his  neighbors  in  the  village  store,  was  a  re- 
markable man.  He  was  well  read ;  was  especially  strong  in 
history,  and  an  excellent  debater.  His  eyes  were  always  blood- 
shot, and  his  face  was  as  hard-lined  as  the  steel  bars  upon  which 
he  wrought;  yet,  on  Sundays,  washed  clean  from  the  smut  of 


42  NEW  ENGLAND   BYGONES. 

toil,  it  was  a  face  worthy  to  be  remembered.  Then  he  was  a 
noble-looking  man,  sitting,  broad-browed,  erect,  and  observant, 
at  the  head  of  his  pew,  where  he  followed  Parson  B.'s  long 
and  sensible  discourses  with  the  keen  relish  of  an  apt  logician. 
This  blacksmith  shod  horses  admirably.  His  shoes  fitted,  and 
his  nails  never  missed.  In  his  chosen  vocation  he  had  a  perfect 
career,  because  whatever  he  did  he  did  well.  People  came  to 
him  from  far  and  near,  for  no  known  blacksmith  shod  horses 
so  well  as  he.  In  this  merit  of  his  work  lay  the  pathos  of  his 
life;  for  this  man,  who  shod  horses,  might  have  ruled  men.  The 
logic  which  swayed  the  loungers  in  the  village  store  should  have 
been  given  to  his  equals.  It  is  a  mystery  why  this  stalwart 
wrangler,  who  might  have  figured  and  grown  famous  in  the 
world,  hammered  away,  all  his  days,  at  horses'  feet  in  a  village 
smithy. 

There  is  no  end  to  these  remembered  representative  characters; 
quaint  and  positive,  always  grand,  because  underlaid  by  sim- 
plicity and  fidelity  to  right. 

These  farmers  did  not  adorn  their  houses  much,  either  in-doors 
or  out,  for  they  were  almost  always  work-driven  and  weary. 
Nature  took  up  their  task  where  they  left  it.  They  planted 
fences  and  gates  and  well-sweeps.  She,  with  her  frosts  and 
stains  and  mosses,  tumbled  and  embellished  them.  The  saplings 
they  started  grew  into  prim  poplars  and  dense,  ill-bearing  or- 
chards; but  there  was  about  these  half- worthless  trees,  in  their 
moss-clad  old  age,  a  kind  of  fitness  which  served  its  time  and 
purpose.  When  the  square,  brown  farm-houses  began  to  decay, 


ETCHINGS. 


43 


and  farmers  to  graft  their  newly-planted  stocks,  the  poplars  and 
shaggy  old  apple-trees  began  also  to  die.  Each  was  a  sort  of 
appendage  to  the  other,  and  so  they  passed  away  together. 


The  sweetest  and  most  natural  outgrowth  of  old-time  pastoral 
life  was  a  love  of,  and  clinging  to,  the  old  homesteads.  Once 
New  England  was  full  of  them;  great,  brown,  roomy,  homely 
houses,  facing  the  south ;  led  to  by  green  lanes ;  shut  in  by 


44  NEW  ENGLAND   BYGONES. 

ancestral  fields;  standing  quite  even  with  the  greensward,  which 
they  met  with  low-lying  stones  dug  out  from  their  own  pastures. 
Each  had  its  family  burial-place, — blessed  spot.  They  were  all 
rich  in  springs  and  brooks  and  woodlands.  They  had  added  to 
them,  year  after  year,  the  glory  of  trees  and  bushes  and  vines ; 
the  wild  growth  of  seeds,  flung  by  the  winds  into  the  crevices 
of  walls  and  unused  places.  That  which  was  peculiar  to  them, 
that  which  could  not  be  simulated  by  art,  was  a  certain  beauty 
given  to  them  by  time  and  use  and  decay,— a  sort  of  mellowing 
into  the  landscape  of  the  piles  and  their  adjuncts,  by  which  each 
homestead  took  unto  itself  an  individual  expression  for  its  owner 
and  his  descendants.  The  aspect  of  a  farm-house  was,  to  the 
children  of  it,  as  personal  of  recognition  as  the  face  of  a  father 
or  grandfather.  It  was  to  be  held  in  the  family  name,  and  go 
down  with  it.  It  was  the  sanctuary  of  homely  virtues ;  the 
centre  of  family  reunions;  the  place  of  its  yearly  thanksgiving; 
a  spot  from  which  its  membership  had  enlarged  and  diverged ; 
and  to  which,  when  they  died,  its  sons  and  daughters  were 
brought  back  for  burial.  In  it,  generation  after  generation, 
there  was  always  one  left.  It  was  either  a  faithful  son  or 
daughter  who  had  married  one  of  her  own  sort.  These  men 
and  women  were  spoken  of  as  "  the  boys  and  girls"  at  home, 
and,  as  such,  they  were  most  admirable.  No  matter  how  little 
fitted  they  seemed  to  be  for  any  other  sphere,  as  the  appendages 
and  rulers  of  these  old  houses  they  could  have  hardly  been 
changed  for  the  butter.  They  were  a  portion  of  their  appro- 
priate machinery,  and  stayed  by  them  from  choice,  because  their 


ETCHINGS.  45 

lives  had  not  grown  away  from  them.  The  men  had  a  certain 
audacity  of  mien ;  the  simple  abandon  of  persons  whose  dealings 
were  largely  with  nature.  The  women  had  no  artificial  ways; 
little  learning ;  but  much  good  sense,  and  their  greatest  charm 
was  that  they  were  easily  satisfied  with  small  pleasures.  Their 
children  were  the  "country  cousins";  as  much  a  sweet  feature 
of  farm-life  as  were  its  dandelions  and  buttercups  and  daisies. 

Thus,  by  rotation,  the  homestead  was  always  filled.  The 
foreign  land,  to  which  its  indwellers-  all  travelled,  was  the  little 
burial-ground  close  by.  The  journey  to  this  was  short  by  linear 
measurement;  but,  reckoned  by  the  events  and  worth  of  the 
days  and  months  and  years  it  took  to  get  there,  it  was  a  travel 
wonderfully  rich  in  effort  and  results.  The  external  signs  of 
this  journey  were  the  ruts  in  the  boards  and  stones,  worn  by 
the  steady  tramp  of  feet.  What  you  could  not  see  was  the 
life  which  had  been  constantly  diverging  from  such  fountains 
of  piety,  truth,  and  industry. 

As  I  look  back,  what  strikes  me  most  in  that  old  country 
living  is  its  simplicity,  its  earnestness,  its  honesty,  and  its  dig- 
nity. The  men  and  women  seemed  to  grapple  with  their  in- 
herited burdens.  They  were  a  race  of  born  athletes  and  wrestlers 
with  the  soil;  the  natural  outgrowth  of  it. 

I  see  them  walking,  as  they  used,  across  the  green  fields  to 
the  meeting-house,  which  stood  on  a  hill  a  mile  away  from  my 
grandfather's,  clad  in  their  long-kept,  variously-made  holiday 
garments, — a  quaint  procession.  There  are  samples  of  shawls 

and  dresses,  preserved  by  me  in  memory  from  the  attire  of  my 

'      7 


46  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

grandfather's  fellow-worshippers,  every  thread  of  whose  real 
texture  has  been  eaten  away.  I  know  just  how  they  were 
worn.  Old  Dame  H.  had  a  soft,  silky,  crimson  shawl,  which 
she  drew  closely  over  her  shoulders,  and  pinned  three  times 
down  in  front.  The  pins  seemed  never  to  vary  a  thread;  and 
year  after  year  her  sharp  shoulders  rubbed  at  its  warp  and  woof 
until  it  grew  stringy  and  streaked. 

There  were  coats  and  cloaks  and  dresses,  so  far  removed  from 
any  suggestion  of  mode  that  their  strangeness  of  make,  joined 
with  richness  of  fabric,  gave  dignity  to  them,  and  the  men  and 
women  who  wore  them  were  the  authors  of  a  true  style. 

Old  Squire  S.  never  put  aside  his  plaid  cloak  lined  with  green 
baize.  His  sons  and  daughters  went  away  from  the  homestead, 
and  came  back  richly  clad  in  the  world's  fashions.  That  made 
no  difference  to  him.  He  walked  up  the  church  aisle,  year  after 
year,  in  front  of  the  gayest  of  them,  with  his  old  plaid,  which 
wrapped  him  about  like  a  tartan ;  and,  through  the  singing  of 
psalms,  prayers,  and  benedictions,  he  stood,  with  the  green  baize 
flung  over  his  shoulders,  unconscious  that  there  was  anything 
queer  or  old-fashioned  about  him.  There  was  nothing  old-fash- 
ioned. He  was  a  splendid  old  man,  erect,  proud,  with  a  broad, 
white  brow,  and  a  grand  record  for  brain-work  in  all  the  courts. 
The  old  cloak  had  become  a  kind  of  toga,  invested  by  him  with 
the  worth  of  long  association,  and  so  had  grown  to  be  invaluably 
a  part  of  himself. 

There  is  a  sentiment  about  old  wraps,  which  have  travelled 
with  you,  and  stood  by  you  when  the  flimsiness  of  other  attire 


ETCHINGS.  47 

has  failed.  It  needs  not  to  be  woven  in  with  camel's  hair,  and 
it  does  not  suit  the  texture  of  lace.  It  is  hostile  to  fashion, 
and  comes  only  with  using.  It  is  tender,  and  touches  you  like 
keepsakes  of  lost  friends.  Your  best  imported  wraps  are  those 
which  you  have  brought  across  the  sea  yourself;  which  have 
the  imprint  of  travel  and  good  companionship ;  which  have  been 
tossed  about  in  many  lands,  and  had  their  colors  mellowed  by 
much  usage.  Such  can  never  be  duplicated  nor  simulated.  They 
are  a  true  tapestry,  inwrought  with  a  part  of  the  richness  of 
your  life.  Why  cannot  some  web  be  woven  fit  for  lifelong  wear, 
so  that  memory  may  be  allowed  to  crystallize  about  it,  and  then 
the  mantles  of  those  we  have  loved  could  literally  fall  upon  us  ? 


MY 

grandfather  ~'| 

biiilt  his  house 
in  the  middle  of  his 
farm.  All  the  farm-houses  in  that  neighborhood  were  thus 
centrally  located.  Isolation  was  the  result ;  so  was  also  economy 
of  working  force, — no  mean  item  where  the  soil  was  hard,  rocky, 

O 

and  ungrateful,  and  bread  was  truly  to  be  won  by  sweat  of  the 


50  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

brow.  Distance  lent  much  beauty  to  these  plain  farm-houses. 
The  long,  tree-arched  green  lanes  leading  to  them,  their  cum- 
brous gates,  their  straggling  sheds,  and  half-slovenly  profusion 
of  wood-piles  and  carts,  went  into  the  picture ;  and  the  softening 
aspect  of  smoke  and  cloud  and  outlying  verdure  gave  to  them 
the  baptismal  touch  of  all-creative  nature. 

My  grandfather's  lane  was  overhung  by  stalwart  elms  and 
maples.  Just  at  its  entrance  was  a  bubbling  spring,  whose 
waters  trickled  down  by  the  way-side  through  beds  of  violets 
and  wild  flag.  The  lane  itself  was  fenced  in  by  a  stone  wall ; 
in  my  day  tumbled  by  frost  and  fretted  with  moss.  Its  turf 
was  like  velvet.  Two  deep  wheel-ruts,  the  wear  of  years,  ran 
through  it,  in  and  out  of  which  the  family  chaise  bounced  rol- 
lickingly,  for  horses  were  sure  to  pr.ick  up  their  ears  and  quicken 
their  pace  as  soon  as  they  snuffed  the  cool  spring.  You  know 
that  pleasant  sound,  when,  upon  turning  from  the  hard  highway, 
their  hoofs  struck  the  porous  soil.  At  the  lane's  farther  end 
was  a  gate  with  a  huge,  upright  beam,  uncouth,  clumsy,  and 
slow  to  move  on  its  hinges, — apt  to  sag, — ploughing  a  semi- 
circle with  its  nigh  end,  and  weighing  heavily  upon  the  shoulder 
of  the  opener.  Endurance  seemed  to  have  entered  into  all  the 
building  plans  of  old-time  workers;  and  size  and  weight  were 
to  them  the  emblems  of  endurance.  About  my  grandfather's 
gate  smart-weed  and  dock-weed  and  plantain  grew  profusely, — 
mean  weeds ;  but  Hannah,  maid-of- all- work,  distilled  from  them 
dyes  and  balsams.  Beauty  lay  hidden  in  their  juices,  which 
Hannah  expressed  and  fastened  into  her  patiently  spun  and 


THE  FARM.  51 

woven  fabrics  of  cotton,  linen,  and  woollen.  Over  the  gate 
and  over  the  well  a  massive  butternut-tree  flung  its  branches. 
It  stands  to-day,  with  its  trunk  half-rotten,  and  I  sit  under  it 
and  seem  again  a  child.  Only  for  a  moment,  for,  with  the  years 
that  have  gone  into  my  life,  something  sweet  and  beautiful  has 
gone  out  of  it.  Dear  little  Benny !  you  arid  I  came  first  to- 
gether through  the  gateway  into  the  farm-house  yard.  A  white- 
haired  old  man  stood  in  the  door  to  welcome  us.  It  was  late 
on  a  summer's  day :  so  late  that  the  cattle  were  lowing  to  be 
let  through  the  pasture-bars;  the  work  of  the  day  was  well- 
nigh  past,  and  the  dews  and  peace  of  night  were  beginning  to 
fall.  Sweet,  sacred  eventide !  Gone  are  they  all, — the  dear  old 
man,  the  beautiful  boy,  the  herds,  and  the  laborers  who  wrought 
with  them.  The  structures,  built  by  mortal  hands,  are  rotting 
and  tumbling;  the  tree  is  dying;  the  rest  are  shadowy  things 
of  memory.  I  look  down  into  the  deep  old  well,  with  its  unsafe 
curb  and  sweep  (how  foolish  I  am !),  for  the  trout  little  Benny 
dropped  there  more  than  forty  years  ago.  I  see  nothing  save 
green,  slimy  rocks  and  the  shadow  of  my  own  face. 

I  say  little  Benny,  because  dead  children  never  grow  old.  We 
talk  of  what  they  might  have  been,  but  we  possess  only  what 
they  were.  Little  Benny  died  more  than  forty  years  ago, — a 
beautiful,  precocious  boy.  Had  he  lived,  he  might  have  been 
a  famous  man.  He  is  only  remembered  as  the  loving,  lovable 
child,  and  as  'such  I  go  back  to  meet  him.  Very  few  are  the 
lasting  impressions  of  the  forms  and  features  of  lost  ones.  Some 
intensity  of  word  or  look  or  action  glorifies  a  moment  of  a 


52  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

child's  life,  and  makes  its  expression  an  imperishable  thing  of 
memory. 

Marion,  brown-eyed  Marion,  rosy,  radiant,  flinging  back  her 
hair  with  careless  abandon,  bursts  into  my  room.  By  that  one 
attitude  and  expression  I  beet  remember  her.  You  can  never 
know  what  unwitting  posture  of  your  child  is  to  become  a 


treasure  to  you.  If  it  dies,  you  will  lose  hold  of  its  heart- 
rending reality,  and  will  be  consoled  by  the  ideal  suggestiveness 
of  its  occasional  aspects.  This  is  the  healing  which  time,  and 
time  alone,  brings  to  your  sorrows. 

Thus  talks  the  old  well  to  me,  treading  cautiously  upon  its 
rickety  platform.      High    up   dangles   the   rusty  bucket-handle; 


THE  FARM.  53 

the  balance  weight  is  gone;  the  sweep  and  beam  are  rotten 
and  ready  to  fall.  A  spasm  of  tenderness  seizes  me;  things 
take  life.  Summer  days  come  back  to  me,  and  with  them  beau- 
tiful rural  pictures  of  tired  men  and  patient  animals  slaking 
their  thirst.  I  shut  my  eyes  and  the  yard  is  alive  again.  Oxen 
are  lapping  cool  water  from  the  trough ;  laborers  are  grasping 
the  dripping  bucket,  poised  on  the  edge  of  the  curb;  upon  the 
doorstep  sits  my  grandfather,  his  white  hair  streaming  over  his 
shoulders.  How  clear-cut  the  whole  scene  is, — this  picture  of 
common  farm-life !  The  oxen  lift  their  heads  and  blink  their 
eyes,  and  then  go  back  to  their  draught.  It  seems  as  if  they 
never  would  be  done.  The  men  let  down  the  bucket  twice  and 
thrice  over,  and  up  it  comes,  each  time  more  coolly  dripping  than 
before.  Its  crystal  streams  splash  back  into  the  deep  old  well 
with  a  pleasant,  resonant  sound.  Hannah  comes  out  with  her 
pails  and  fills  them,  and  I,  standing  on  tiptoe,  lean  over  the 
curb  and  watch  the  water  as  it  trickles  down  the  mossy  rocks. 
She  is  meanwhile  unconscious,  as  I  am,  that  through  those 
simple  acts  our  lives  are  being  irrevocably  woven  together,  each 
with  the  other,  as  well  as  with  the  drinkers  and  drawers  around 
us,  in  a  never-fading  picture.  Dear,  cool,  overflowing,  delightful 
old  well !  your  waters  in  those  summer  days  were  magic  waters, 
and  the  creatures  who  drank  of  you,  even  the  dumbest  of  them, 
were  by  you  baptized  for  me  with  an  undying  beauty. 

The  heavy  farm-gates,  though  uncouth  and  hard  to  manage, 
were  made  pleasant  objects  by  age.  The  lane-gate  of  my  grand- 
father, hugged  by  a  vine,  had  put  out  grasses  and  weeds  from 


54  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

its  joints,  and  was  mottled  all  over  with  moss.  The  make  of 
these  gates  was  always  a  marvel.  Pegs  and  supple  withes  stood 
instead  of  hinges;  and  a  strong  bar,  fastened  to  their  centre, 
ran,  with  a  sharp  angle,  to  the  upper  end  of  a  tall  post.  They 
were  in  keeping  with  the  well-sweeps,  the  ragged  fences,  and 
stone  walls.  They  grew,  picturesquely,  into  the  landscape,  and 
pointed  out  otherwise  inconspicuous  en  trance- ways.  These  latter 
were  often  only  slight  wheel-ruts  cut  into  the  sods  of  the  fields, 
so  that  the  gate-posts  served  as  signboards  to  benighted  and 
weary  travellers.  They  loomed  up,  gray  and  ghostly,  out  of 
the  darkness  of  night,  and  were  homely  signals  of  hospitality 
in  winter  snow-wastes.  "I  see  the  gate, — we're  almost  there!" 
shouted  Benny.  We  were  making  our  first  joint  visit  to  my 
grandfather's  farm,  and  the  friendly  bars  and  beams  of  this  gate 
beckoned  to  us.  Hospitable  old  gate ! — which  would  never  then 
budge  an  inch  at  my  tugging;  but  which  nevertheless  always 
swung,  with  a  right  royal  arch,  wide  open,  to  let  me  in. 

A  second  gate,  at  my  grandfather's,  opened  from  the  opposite 
side  of  the  farm-house  yard,  just  beyond  the  butternut-tree, 
into  another  lane.  This  lane  went  down  into  the  pasture  and 
the  woodland.  At  its  farther  end  were  the  clumsy,  unstable 
pasture-bars,  against  which  the  cattle  crowded  at  nightfall,  and 
leaped  past  the  fearless  children  who  let  them  out.  These 
farmers'  children,  who  roamed  pastures  and  woods,  unmindful 
of  herds,  and  came  back  shaggy  and  weighed  down  with  all 
sorts  of  wild  growth,  were  truly  the  foster-children  of  nature. 
Year  after  year  of  their  half-untamed  lives  she  gave  to  them 


THE  FARM. 


55 


the  simple  gifts  of 
her  annual  harvests, 
and  quickened  their 
senses  towards  that 
in  her  which  was 
imperishable.  These 
young  freebooters 
laid  up  enduring 


56  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

riches.  Lying  on  her  pasture-knolls,  tossing  about  amongst  her 
dead  leaves,  tramping  through  brooks  and  bogs  and  brushwood, 
they  stumbled  upon  her  treasures  unawares.  The  berries  and 
nuts  and  mints  they  sought  were  transient  things ;  but  the  glories 
of  the  days  which  brought  them  entered  into,  and  gave  to  them 
a  good  and  delight  which  were  eternal.  Those  children  are 
made  richer  and  better,  who  have  early  dealings  with  Nature ; 
she  gives  to  them  a  joy  which  will  stand  by  them  all  their  days. 
If  they  get  it  not,  they  will  have  missed  something  most  admi- 
rable out  of  their  lives. 

In  farmers'  families,  the  driving  of  the  cows  to  pasture  passed 
by  rotation  from  one  child  to  another.  Sometimes  a  man  or 
woman  of  the  household  took  up  the  task,  from  necessity  or 
inclination,  as  a  duty  or  diversion.  They  were,  most  often, 
thoughtful,  observant  men  and  women,  to  whom  their  morning 
and  evening  lessons,  such  as  God  gave  to  them  in  the  changeful 
aspects  of  earth  and  sky,  were,  perhaps  half  unconsciously,  well 
learned.  Sweet  scents  and  sounds  and  sights  greeted  them. 
They  got  from  the  morning  strength  for  the  day's  burdens, 
and  the  peace  of  twilight  lifted  these  burdens  from  them.  I 
recall  three  men  who,  all  through  middle  life  and  far  into  old 
age,  morning  and  night,  at  unvarying  hours,  drove  their  herds 
to  and  from  the  pastures.  Their  cows  knew  them,  and,  in  the 
virtue  of  patience,  seemed  quite  as  human  as  they.  They  were 
all  three  grand  men,  sensible,  honest,  and  carrying  weight  in 
town  affairs.  This  humble  duty,  cheerfully  done,  did  but  illus- 
trate and  embellish  the  childlike  simplicity  of  their  lives.  There 


THE  FARM. 


57 


could  be  no  more  pastoral  picture  than  that  of  these  respectable 
farmers  plodding  along  the  highway  with  their  cows  in  the  early 
brightness  of  morning.  They  were  literally  walking  hand  in  hand 
with  nature.  Transplanted  into  a  city,  they  would  have  been 
poor  in  its  riches,  unfitted  for  its  pursuits  and  pastimes.  On 
the  country  highway  they  were  heirs  of  the  soil ;  lessees  of  the 
landscapes  and  sky  views ;  unconscious  absorbents  of  the  earth's 


brightness  and  beauty.  I  know  men  in  high  places  who  look  back 
with  keen  pleasure  to  their  cow-driving  days,  when  the  lowing 
herds  used  to  come  across  the  rocky  pastures  to  meet  them,  and 
who,  from  these  enforced  morning  and  evening  walks,  grew  to 
be  observers  and  lovers  of  nature.  I  remember  with  delight  my 
grandfather's  pasture,  poor  of  soil  and  scanty. of  herbage ;  uneven 
of  surface;  its  hillocks  clad  with  moss  and  wintergreen ;  cut  in 


58  NEW  ENGLAND   BYGONES. 

two  by  a  clear,  babbling  brook  ;  shaded  here  and  there  by  clumps 
of  trees ;  ragged  with  rocks  and  ferns  and  wild  shrubs ;  marshy 
next  to  the  mill-pond,  as  well  as  treacherous,  and  tangled  with 
flag  and  bulrushes.  Rare  old  New  England  pasture-lands  !  You 
were  stingy  of  grass,  but  you  were  never-failing  in  beauty, — 
that  beauty  which  was  revealed  to  the  children,  who,  next  to 
the  herds,  were  your  true  owners.  Early  in  spring-time,  against 
lingering  snow-banks,  came  beds  of  blue  and  white  violets ;  a 
little  later,  hidden  among  crisp,  crackling  leaves,  pink  and  white 
arbutus, — sweetest  of  all  spring  blossoms.  Ferns  unfolded ;  mint 
scented  the  brookside ;  coltsfoot  brightened  its  shoal  bed ;  the 
marsh  bristled  with  spiked  leaves.  With  .the  coming  of  summer, 
the  water-soaked  and  porous  soil  by  degrees  dried  up.  One  had 
no  longer  to  pick  his  way  from  stone  to  stone  across  boggy 
places  (what  early  pasture  roamer  does  not  recall  the  overrated 
audacity  of  such  passages  ?) ;  ferns  grew  strong  and  deep-colored ; 
bog  onions  curled  their  brown  coils  against  the  rocks  (they  would 
not  pull  now  with  the  old  relish) ;  weeds  and  shrubs  and  stinted 
trees  took  on  the  gifts  of  the  passing  seasons,  and,  as  you  trod 
on  them  or  brushed  by  them,  sent  out  to  you  their  wild  flavors. 
Close  by  the  mill-pond  the  soil  was  always  soft,  and  marked  by 
the  hoof-prints  of  cattle.  Here  the  pond  was  shoal  and  full  of 
lilies.  On  hot  summer  days  the  tired  animals  would  stand  for 
hours  knee-deep  in  the  sluggish  water,  unconscious  pictures  of 
peaceful  pastoral  life.  Their  crooked  trail,  winding  in  and  out 
through  the  dampest  and  shadiest  portion  of  the  pasture-land, 
had  a  friendly  look.  Its  black  line  was  easy  to  be  traced  far  into 


THE  FARM.  59 

the  evening,  and  was  always  a,  pleasant  thing  to  stumble  upon. 
It  has  guided  many  a  wanderer  home.  What  traveller  has  not 
had  his  heart  gladdened  by  footprints  in  waste  places  ?  My  path 
was  treacherous  and  hard  to  follow,  but  it  led  one  down  through 
tall,  sweet-scented  bushes;  across  the  shoal  brook;  over  a  long 
stretch  of  ferns ;  past  rocks  and  crackling  brushwood,  into  the 
alders  and  bulrushes  and  wild  flag,  outside  of  which  were  the 
shoal  water  and  a  lily-bed,  where,  stuck  fast  in  the  mud,  was 
a  rotting  old  boat,  which  the  waves  lapped  lazily. 

Here  the  children  from  far  and  near  used  to  come  for  lilies, 
pushing  with  poles  out  into  the  pond.  One  summer  day,  at 
nightfall,  a  little  girl  was  missing  from  a  farmer's  house.  She 

» 

had  gone  out  in  the  morning  and  had  not  come  back.  Two 
weeks  went  by  and  no  clue  of  her  was  found.  Meanwhile  the 
budded  lilies  blossomed  on  the  pond,  and  other  children  went 
one  day  in  search  of  them.  They,  came  back,  not  lily-laden, 
but  with  a  great  horror  on  their  lips.  Pushing  about  among 
the  pads,  they  had  come  upon  something  which  they  dared  not 
touch ;  something  which  two  weeks  before  was  fairer  than  any 
lily,  but  which  now  was  an  awful  thing,  to  be  hastily  put  out 
of  sight. 

On  this  shore  the  children  used  to  plait  rush  caps  and  play 
with  flag-leaves  in  mimic  .warfare.  The  black,  soggy  soil  was 
honeycombed  by  their  busy  feet,  and  their  constant  companions 
were  the  cattle,  who  cooled  themselves  in  the 'shoal  edge  of  the 
pond.  The  blue  of  the  distant  hills,  the  sunshine,  the  shimmer 
of  the  pond,  the  verdure  of  forest  and  woodland  and  lowland 


60  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

and  upland  overarched  and  surrounded  and  hemmed  them  in. 
Absorbed  thus  by  the  landscape,  they  were  made  transient 
features  of  its  glory. 

When  the  summer  had  passed,  grasses  bloomed,  with  a  faint 
purple  haze,  on  the  uplands,  and  bushes  flaunted  in  crimson, 
forerunners  of  the  dying  of  the  year.  Rare  pastoral  scenes ! 
Again  I  am  watching  the  shadows  of  ancient  pines,  lying  across 
the  pond;  herds  browse  the  hillocks;  I  see  the  daintily  coiling 
smoke  of  distant  farm-houses;  the  coquetting  of  clouds  and 
sunshine ;  the  noble  framework  of  hill  and  forest.  The  old 
music  comes  back, — the  ring  of  the  woodman's  axe ;  the  whiz 
of  the  mill  under  the  hill ;  the  lowing  of  herds ;  bird-song ; 
insect-hum;  and,  above  all,  the  drowsy  lapping  of  the  pond 
against  its  shore.  Behold  the  beauty,  the  plenty,  the  generosity 
of  my  pasture ! 

What  shall  be  said  of  the  woodland,  grand,  solemn  old  wood- 
land, with  its  pines,  grim  and  ragged  with  time;  full  of  pallid 
ferns  and  such  dainty  blossoms  as  love  dark  places ;  tangled  with 
a  wild  undergrowth,  and  ankle-deep  with  the  crackling  waste  of 
past  years !  Dense,  damp,  dark,  stately  old  woodland, — I  love 
all  pines  because  of  my  early  friendship  with  yours.  Lying  on 
the  mouldy  carpet  of  your  waste  verdure,  I  caught  your  whispers 
with  the  hidden  sources  of  your  growth,  and  watched  you  from 
my  chamber-window  as  weird  and  wild  you  battled  with  storms. 
The  whistling  of  a  fierce  winter's  wind  through  a  forest  of  pines 
is  a  mournful  sound ;  it  seems  like  a  prolonged  wail  of  the  per- 
secuted trees.  No  tree  has  a  more  striking  mission  than  the 


THE  FARM. 


61 


pine.  It  is  the  vanguard  tree  of  nature.  Grand,  erect,  beauti- 
ful, it  enriches  the  low,  sandy  plain ;  climbing,  strong  and  ag- 
gressive, ever  climbing,  it  lies  prone  against  the  mountain-side, 
clothing  it  with  eternal  verdure.  There  is  something  pathetic 
in  the  wild  gesticulations  of  these  brave  trees,  flinging  out  their 
stinted  and  shrunken  arm-like  branches  in  defiance  to  the  winds ; 
stretching  them  back  from  the  mountain-sides  towards  the  valleys, 
until,  planted  among  the  clouds,  they  wax  frigid  and  dumb  and 
dead. 


a  day  in  childhood. 


ACK  through  the  green 
lane  again  to  the  old 
farm  -  house.  I  gently 
push  open  a  door  which 
,''!W* 'T-'';1,  ^  lt ;.,.,  leads  into  a  hall,  wherein 
I  have  sported  away  many 
At  the  other  end  of  this  hall  is  another 
door,  through  which  came,  forty  years  ago,  the  odor  of  sweet- 
brier  and  honeysuckle.  I  tiptoe  across  the  fragile  floor  and 
look  out.  Field-scents  greet  me,  so  familiar  that  I  am  almost 
dazed  into  believing  that  many  things  have  not  been,  and  that 
the  dear  old  days  have  come  back.  Once  a  bench  and  basin 
stood  beside  this  door,  where  tired  laborers  used  to  make  them- 
selves tidy  for  their  meals.  Just  beyond  was  a  kitchen-garden, 
with  a  beehive  close  by,  and  a  grindstone  under  a  maple.  Bench 
and  basin,  hive  and  stone  are  gone,  and  burdocks  and  plantain 

have  taken  the  place  of  homely  vegetables ;  but  the  sapling  little 
62 


THE  FARM-HOUSE.  63 

Benny  planted  has  grown  into  a  massive  tree.  Who  would  have 
thought  to  have  tracked  him  after  a  lapse  of  more  than  forty 
years?  Is  this  not  a  true  spirit  communion, — this  catching 
glimpses,  among  the  shadows  of  the  long  past,  of  dear  faces 
which  have  not  grown  old;  this  wistful  turning  back  towards 
the  sunshine  of  our  earlier  days? 

My  grandfather's  kitchen  was  a  sombre  room,  ceiled  and 
painted  brown;  with  huge  beams,  high  dressers,  and  yawning 
fireplace.  It  had  only  two  small  windows,  and  was  entered  by 
nine  doors.  It  was  in  reality  the  great  hall  of  the  house.  What 
it  lacked  by  day  was  light  and  sunshine.  At  night,  brightened 
by  a  roaring  backlog,  it  was  full  of  cheer.  Then  its  beams  and 
ceilings  and  simple  furnishings  were  enriched  by  shadows,  and 
the  pewter  dishes  upon  its  brown  dressers  shone  in  dancing 
firelight  like  silver.  The  two  shelves,  full  of  leather-coversd 
books ;  the  weatherwise  almanac,  hanging  from  a  peg ;  the  cross- 
legged  table  and  prim  chairs;  the  long  crane,  with  its  hissing 
teakettle ;  the  brush ;  the  bellows ;  the  settle  in  the  corner,  and 
whatever  else  was  there,  all  became  fire-changed,  and  were  mel- 
lowed into  the  bright  scene.  This  room  was  by  night  the  best 
part  of  the  house.  It  was  always  the  true  heart  of  it ;  that 
vital  centre  from  which  diverged  its  indwelling  life.  It  was 
the  place  where  people  lounged  and  lingered.  Because  its  small 
windows  let  in  few  sunbeams,  those  which  did  come  in  were  all 
the  more  precious.  Because  it  was  full  of  homely  things,  and 
was,  as  the  women  said,  "  most  convenient,"  it  had  inwrought 
into  it,  as  a  picture,  a  quaint  beauty  of  adaptation.  Mellow, 


64  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

brown  old  kitchens, — how  many  costly  rooms  simulate,  in  their 

furnishings,  your  inexpensive  colors ! 

There  was  a  dignity  in  the  domestic  labor  of  my  grandfather's 

kitchen.  Its  workers  wrested  from  the  humility  of  their  voca- 
tion some  measure  of  that  beauty  which 
would  have  been  thrust  upon  them  by 
more  gracious  conditions  of  life.  Their 
daily  walk  was  narrow :  it  was  almost 
bounded  by  their  kitchen ;  but  this  latter 
was  glorified  by  firelight  and  consecrated 

O  */ 

by  use.  The  simple  harmony  of  it,  which 
has  made  it  a  charming  thing  of  memory, 
was  reflected  upon  these  women.  They 
became  a  part  of  it,  and,  as  such,  they 
are  not  drudges  in  plain  garments,  but 
quaintly-costumed  life-studies  in  a  picture 
of  a  delightful  old  room. 

I  can  see  now  my  stately  grandmother 
preparing  her  noontide  meal.  Her  checked 
apron  and  muslin  cap  were  spotlessly  clean,  and  she  handled 
her  clumsy  utensils  with  a  becoming  deftness.  Hannah,  the 
maid,  hovered  around,  ready  to  lend  a  helping  hand.  The 
crane,  hung  with  pots,  kept  up  a  constant  sizzling,  and  covered 
pans  spluttered  from  ember-heaps  in  the  corner.  There  was 
no  hurry,  no  bustle,  no  rattling  of  dishes.  Hannah  blew  a  tin 
horn  from  the  back-door.  There  was  a  swashing  at  the  little 
bench  outside.  The  crane  was  swung  out ;  covers  were  lifted ; 


THE  FARM-HOUSE.  65 

pans  were  taken  from  the  corners ;  with  perfect  order  the  dinner 
passed  from  the  fire  to  the  table,  well  cooked,  sufficient,  and 
wholesome.  It  was  not  daintily  served,  with  cut-glass  and 
china,  but  it  was  full  of  the  essence  of  vitality,  and  had  the 
merit  of  utter  cleanliness.  My  grandmother  presided  over  it 
with  a  serious  dignity  untaught  by  rules  of  etiquette;  and  in 
no  way  was  the  discipline  of  her  household  better  shown  than 
by  the  utter  decorum  of  its  meals. 

The  kitchen  floor  was  white  and  worn  with  much  scrubbing, — 
hollows  telling  where  its  best  seats  by  the  hearth  were.  The 
doors  opened  into  rare  rooms :  this  one  into  a  granite-walled 
dairy,  as  cool,  clean,  and  compact  as  if  it  were  cut  from  the 
solid  rock.  The  next  led  into  the  cellar,  full  of  compartments 
and  bins  and  dark  closets,  crammed  in  winter  with  farm  prod- 
ucts. This  storehouse  never  failed.  Its  apples  were  wild  things, 
but  toothsome,  for  they  were  the  best  from  a  great  orchard,  and 
one  scented  them  from  the  stairway  out  of  a  long  line  of  barrels. 
Nothing  can  quite  equal  for  richness  the  flavor  which  a  year's 
ripeness  pours  into  a  farm-house.  It  is  only  found  in  country 
homes, — this  condensed  sweetness,  which  has  gone  out  of  all  the 
months  of  the  year  into  the  fashioning  of  the  many  things  which 
were  heaped  and  hoarded  at  the  gathering  in  of  the  harvest. 

How  fruits  stored  in  old  cellars  kept  their  freshness !  That 
of  one  apple-tree  in  particular,  at  my  grandfather's*  never  got 
its  true  ripeness  until  late  in  April.  When  first  harvested  it 
was  crabbed,  puckering  the  mouth.  It  Was  a  tiny,  bright  fruit, 
profusely  mottling  its  tree  with  crimson.  It  shrank  and  withered 


66  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES.  ' 

by  keeping;  but  it  grew  palatable  in  inverse  ratio  to  its  size. 
I  remember  a  branch,  broken  off  by  accident,  which  carried  its 
relish  into  the  days  of  June.  It  was  a  pretty  thing,  hanging 
from  the  cellar-wall, — a  hardy  waif  from  the  dead  harvest  of 
the  past  year. 

Two  doors  led  into  bedrooms,  in  which  were  chests  of  drawers 
full  of  homespun  linen.  Over  the  dairy  ran  the  stairway,  lead- 
ing to  chambers  severely  simple  in  furnishing,  but  clean,  and 
made  bright  by  sunshine.  The  floors  of  these  chambers  were 
kept  strewn  with  sand, — a  cheap,  changeful  covering,  which  at 
night  I  used  to  scrawl  over  with  skeleton  pictures,  to  be  scattered 
in  the  morning. 

The  doors  mostly  opened  with  iron  latches.  These  latches 
were  clumsy  things,  lifting  by  a  thumb-piece  with  a  sha^p  click, 
and  sending  a  shiver  through  one  on  frosty  days.  On  the  shed 
doors,  made  of  wood,  they  were  drawn  up  by  the  traditional 
bobbin.  Brass  knobs  adorned  the  doors  of  the  spare  room. 
These  were  kept  polished,  and  were  held  in  high  esteem.  Their 
machinery,  shut  into  a  clumsy  iron  case,  was  screwed  upon  the 
outside  of  the  door.  As  works  of  art  none  of  these  fastenings 
were  much  to  be  commended,  but  as  quaint  appendages  to  their 
homely  doors  were  the  best  latches  I  have  ever  known. 

The  west  room  was  the  family  "  keeping-room,"  also  lighted 
up  at  night  by  a  roaring  backlog.  The  brush  and  bellows  in 
this  room  were  pretentious  with  green  and  gold,  and  the  shovel 
and  poker  were  headed  with  brass  knobs ;  but  the  fire  was  not 
a  whit  more  cheerful  than  that  in  the  brown  kitchen. 


THE  FARM-HOUSE. 


67 


I   have   sat   hour   after   hour   in   that   kitchen   watching   the 

O 

backlog's  slow  consumption,  half  blinding  my  eyes  with  its 
flickering  brightness.  It  was  a  long-dying,  companionable  thing, 
taking  strong  hold  upon  a  child's  fancy.  It  had  been  dragged 
to  its  place  in  the  early  morning,  snow-bound  and  shaggy.  It 
was  defiant  of  its  fate,  and  fought  against  it  through  the  whole 
day.  It  truly  died  by  inches.  From  its  ends  sizzled  and 
dropped  its  sap, — its  true  life-blood;  its  substance  fell  off  ring 
by  ring ;  its  ashes  settled  slowly  upon 
the  hearth.  Everybody  hacked  at 
it ;  it  was  constantly  plied  with  shovel, 
tongs,  and  poker;  sparks  flew  fu- 
riously ;  coals  flaked  off ;  by  degrees 
the  log  grew  thin  in  the  middle. 
At  last  a  solid  blow  finished  it;  it 
snapped,  and  the  parted 
ends  fell  without  the 
iron  dogs ;  the  brands 
were  ready  to  be  raked 
up ;  the  backlog  was 
no  more.  Its  life  was 
jocund  and  brilliant. 
It  was  eloquent  with 
fiery  tongues,  and  the  stories  it  told  to  a  child,  with  crackling 
voice,  went  not  out  with  its  smoke. 

Farmers  were  not   stingy  with  their   fuel,   for  the  brush  in 
the  woodlands    grew  faster   than  they  could  burn   the   ancient 


68  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

trees.  My  grandfather's  backlogs  were  drawn  through  the  house 
on  a  hand-sled, — snowy,  mossy  things,  dripping  with  sap  and 
shaggy  with  bark.  They  were  buried  in  embers,  and  then  sup- 
plemented with  a  forelog,  which,  in  its  own  turn,  was  plied  with 
lighter  fuel  and  bolstered  up  with  iron  dogs.  The  building  of 
this  pile  was  an  art ;  and  the  practical  farmer  knew  how  to 
adjust  the  size  of  the  log  to  the  day's  consumption,  so  that  it 
was  quite  sure  to  shatter  and  break  in  season  for  the  early 
"raking  up"  of  the  night.  This  "raking  up"  at  my  grand- 
father's was  his  own  care ;  and  it  was  thought  worthy  of  note 
in  an  almanac,  when,  once  upon  a  time,  his  coals  had  failed  to 
keep,  and  a  fresh  supply  was  brought  from  a  neighbor's  half 
a  mile  away.  The  ashes  of  those  ancient  wood-fires  were  full 
of  virtue.  They  went  to  leach  in  spring  for  the  making  of 
family  soap,  and  spread  their  richness  far  and  wide  over  hungry 
fields. 

The  west  room  of  the  old  farm-house  was  most  cheerful  in 
long  winter  evenings ;  not  made  so  by  social  life  or  by  artificial 
adornments,  but  rather  by  a  sweet  peace,  and  by  the  rich  gifts 
of  its  outlying  world.  With  face  flattened  against  its  window- 
panes,  I,  a  nature-loving  child,  peered  out  at  the  glittering  mill- 
pond  and  the  dark  woodland ;  traced  the  thread  of  a  highway  ; 
caught  the  sound  of  transient  bells;  made  friends  with  snow 
and  clouds  and  shadows,  and  came  to  love  its  wild  winter  scenery. 
Without  a  love  for  nature,  life  in  this  isolated  farm-house  through 
the  winter  months,  to  one  unused  to  it,  must  have  been  lonely 
and  monotonous.  In  February,  when  the  lane  almost  daily  filled 


THE  FARM-HOUSE.  69 

with  snow,  my  grandfather  opened  a  highway  through  the  "  upper 
field."  This  was  more  easily  kept  clear,  but  it  failed  to  entice 
many  comers.  People  hugged  their  firesides  through  winter 
snows,  and  learned  to  be  content.  There  was  a  largeness  about 
the  home-life  of  ancient  well-to-do  country  people.  They  had 
space,  great  houses,  and  great  rooms ;  and  if  they  had  little 
show,  they  had  at  least  no  shams.  Their  houses  needed  few 
furnishings,  because  so  much  embellishment  was  given  to  them 
by  nature.  Through  many  years,  vivid  and  beautiful,  have 
stood  by  me  the  rare  adornments  of  my  grandfather's  great 
house.  They  were  skies  and  woods  and  water  and  far-off  hills 
let  in  through  its  windows ;  the  shifting  aspects  of  winter  snows 
and  summer  verdure ;  and  many  especial  revelations  from  earth 
and  sky.  It  was  a  great  house,  so  large  that  its  uncarpeted 
chambers  gave  back  an  echo  to  my  footsteps ;  and  I  never  went 
up  to  its  garret,  which  I  did  seldom  and  softly,  without  a  feeling 
of  loneliness.  This  garret  was  a  weird  place,  with  shelves  and 
scaffolds  packed  with  the  waste  of  years,  and  its  beams  hung 
with  dried  herbs.  It  was  dimly  lighted  by  two  small  gable 
windows,  and  at  the  head  of  the  stairway  was  cut  in  two  by  a 
rambling  old  chimney.  More  than  any  other  spot  in  the  house 
it  had  the  air  of  age  and  decay.  Its  dealings  appeared  to  be 
wholly  with  the  past,  and  things  out  of  which  life  had  gone. 
All  that  was  in  it  looked  as  if  it  had  belonged  to  another  cen- 
tury ;  and  herbs  filled  the  air  with  a  sickish,  musty  smell.  It 
was  so  far  away  from  the  living-rooms  that  few  sounds  of  busy 
in-door  life  ever  reached  it.  It  was  a  gray  ghost  of  a  chamber, 

10 


70  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

in  which  nobody  had  ever  lived ;  a  sort  of  burial-place  for  worn- 
out  and  faded  things.  It  was  delightful  to  come  down  from  it 
into  the  brighter  reams,  which  seemed,  all  of  them,  to  be  per- 
vaded by  some  savory  odor.  Dried  lavender  and  rose-leaves 
sent  out  their  scents  from  chests  and  drawers ;  the  dairy,  the 
cellar,  the  cheese-room  had  each  their  own  flavor;  and  the  best 
essence  of  every  edible  seemed  to  disengage  itself  over  the 
open  fire.  Johnny-cakes  baked  in  the  corner ;  pies  cooked  in 
the  oven ;  meat  roasted  on  the  spit ;  potatoes  boiled  in  pots ; 
and  from  them  all  into  the  room  came  appetizing  steams. 

The  old  folks  talked  but  little  in  winter  evenings.  My  grand- 
mother's knitting-work  dropped  stitches  now  and  then,  which 
she  drowsily  picked  up  with  an  "Oh,  dear  suz!"  My  grand- 
father, sitting  opposite  to  her,  by  one  corner  of  the  hearth, 
dozed,  with  the  ruddy  firelight  mocking  at  his  wrinkles.  Across 
them  both,  on  the  chest  of  drawers,  on  the  bed-curtains,  on 
the  tall  clock,  on  the  white  walls,  danced  this  same  firelight; 
out  through  the  small  panes  it  streamed  over  the^  waste  of  snow 
into  the  highway,  cheering  the  cold  traveller ;  bright,  beautiful 
home-light.  Peaceful,  long-seeming,  dreamy  winter  evenings, 
you  made  one  used  to  the  sighing  of  winds,  the  roaring  of 
storms,  the  cold  glitter  of  snow;  and  you  taught  one,  through 
isolation,  to  find  how  much  there  is  that  is  beautiful  and  satis- 
fying to  be  gotten  out  of  the  roughest  aspects  and  moods  of 
nature ;  you  also  taught  how  simple  may  be  the  resources  of  a 
true  home-life. 

The  door  on  the  other  side  of  the  front  entry  opened  into 


THE  FARM-HOUSE.  71 

the  east  room.  This  was  the  "  best  room,"  or,  as  my  grand- 
father called  it,  the  "  fore"  room.  Most  noticeable  of  its  fur- 
nishing was  the  bed, — more  for  show  than-  use.  It  was  a  tall 
structure,  built  up  of  corn-husks  and  feathers,  not  to  be  leaned 
against  or  carelessly  indented.  Its  blue  and  white  checked 
canopy,  edged  with  knotted  fringe,  suspended  by  hooks  from 
the  ceiling,  was  spun  and  dyed  and  woven  by  the  women  of 
the  household.  Every  piece  of  linen  they  used  was  of  their 
own  make.  A  pillow-case  from  that  house  is  marked  in  plain 
letters  A.  D.,  meaning  Abigail  Drake,  who  spun  and  wove  it 
there  more  than  eighty  years  ago.  The  letters  are  stitched  in 
with  yellow  silk  (it  must  once  have  been  black)  after  an  ancient 
sampler.  This  sampler  was  a  curious  thing,  running  through 
the  alphabet  and  numerals  in  several  texts  and  various-colored 
silks,  punctuated  at  the  end  by  two  skeleton  birds,  and  winding 
up  with  this  wise  maxim,  "  Industry  is  its  own  reward."  It 
also  announced  in  written  text  that  Abigail  Drake,  at  the  age 
of  twelve,  in  such  a  year,  wrought  this  sampler. 

Such  samplers  were  worked  by  girls  in  the  village  schools. 
Their  letters  were  pricked  in  and  out  with  extreme  care,  and 
the  best  executed  of  them  were  generally  framed  and  hung  in 
the  fore  room.  They  were  as  precious  to  those  who  made  them 
as  if  they  had  been  rare  water-colors,  and  the  measure  of  a 
young  woman's  accomplishment  was  taken  from  the  skill  with' 
which  she  had  done  this  task.  As  rags,  these  old  samplers 
are  worthless  now;  as  the  faded  work  of  bright  young  girls 
of  a  past  century,  they  interest  one ;  for  they  are  fabrics  into 


72  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

which,  in  long  ago  summer  days,  were  inwrought  some  of  the 
old-fashioned  simplicity  and  patience  and  industry  of  a  dead 
generation. 

My  grandfather's  flax  was  of  good  grain.  Its  bed  was  just 
inside  of  the  pasture-bars,  making  a  dainty  show  of  blue  blos- 
soms. There  could  be  nothing  prettier  in  the  way  of  flowers 
than  it  was.  Waving  in  the  wind,  it  seemed  like  a  bit  of  summer 
sky  let  down.  It  was  tended  with  great  care,  and  harvested 
and  made  ready  for  use  with  much  labor.  Failure  of  the  crop 
by  untoward  weather,  or  any  mishap  in  its  preparation,  was 
looked  upon  as  a  great  misfortune. 

In  long  summer  afternoons  my  grandmother  and  Hannah 
planted  their  little  wheels  by  the  back-door,  and  hour  after 
hour  drew  out  the  pliant  threads  which  were  to  be  woven,  in 
the  loom  up-stairs,  into  variously  patterned  coverlets,  table- 
cloths, and  towels.  One  is  touched  in  handling,  at  this  remote 
day,  the  fabrics  fashioned  by  these  ancient  women.  It  seems 
as  if  they  had  woven  into  them  a  warp  and  woof  of  their  own 
vitality,  and  that  the  strength  which  went  out  of  the  patient 
workers  entered  into  their  webs,  and  gave  to  them  a  texture 
of  beauty  and  endurance.  This  old  farm-house  pillow-case  of 
mine  is  as  firm  as  if  its  fibre  had  been  plucked  from  the  flax- 
bed  but  yesterday,  and  it  is  as  lustrous  as  it  was  when  the 
fingers  which  wove  it  first  cut  it  from  the  beam.  To  nothing 
does  the  past  cling  more  than  to  such  ancient  cloths.  The 
threads  you  handle,  which  moth  and  mildew  have  marred,  are 
not  the  real  thing;  that  is  a  finer  undershot,  impalpable  to 


THE  FARM-HOUSE.  73 

touch  of  stranger,  but  trailing  down  to  you,  like  silken  folds, 
glittering  and  precious  with  tenderest  memories. 

How  many  operations  of  breaking  and  bleaching  and  boiling 
those  home  products  had  to  go  through  before  they  came  out 
at  last  faultless  as  the  fruits  of  foreign  looms !  The  bureau,  in 
the  fore  room,  was  always  crammed  with  fine  twined  linens, 
white  as  snow,  and  scented  with  lavender  and  rose-leaves.  How 
did  those  women  accomplish  so  much  ?  I  look  back  upon  them 
with  pride  and  wonder ;  for  my  grandmother  was  no  drudge : 
she  was  a  true  lady.  Never  was  there  a  more  dignified  or  better 
bred  woman  than  she  ;  never  the  mistress  of  a  more  well-ordered 
household.  She  was  never  hurried,  never  behindhand  with  her 
work;  was  given  to  hospitality,  and  was  tasteful  in  her  dress. 
Very  few,  in  those  days,  were  the  complications  of  daily  living ; 
still  I  marvel  how  my  grandmother  managed  to  be  so  cultivated 
and  so  elegant,  and  yet  sit,  hour  after  hour,  at  the  loom,  plying 
her  shuttle  with  no  less  persistence  than,  in  spinning,  she  drew 
out  her  threads. 

Across  the  huge  beams,  under  and  over  each  other,  crossed 
and  recrossed  these  threads,  like  a  spider's  web.  I  know  by 
what  manifold  toil  they  were  gotten  there :  by  reeling,  sizing, 
spooling,  and  warping,  before  my  grandmother  could  begin  to 
throw  her  shuttle.  The  work  was  slow,  but  it  never  flagged. 
Threads  were  broken  and  carefully  taken  up;  quills  gave  out, 
and  were  patiently  renewed;  the  web  grew,  thread  by  thread, 
inch  by  inch ;  the  intricate  pattern  came  out  upon  the  surface, 
and  pleased  the  weaver's  eye  ;  neighbors  dropped  in  and  gossiped 


74 


NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 


over  and  about  it.     The  days  wore  on ;  the  worker  never  failed 
at  her  beam ;  until,  most  likely  at  the  close  of  some  long  sum- 


mer's afternoon,  the  end  of  the  warp  was  reached ;  the  treadles 
stopped;    the  web  was  done.     How  delighted  the  women  used 


THE  FARM-HOUSE.  75 

to  be  with  their  woven  fabric,  so  .slowly  constructed,  so  quickly 
unwound !  They  stretched  it  out,  clipped  its  hanging  threads, 
held  it  up  to  the  light,  and  stroked  and  caressed  it  as  if  it  were 
a  living  thing.  It  would  have  been  a  mean  web  indeed  had  it 
brought  them  no  high  satisfaction.  It  may  have  been  that 
spinning  and  weaving,  by  long  practice,  grew  to  be  a  sort  of 
unconscious  mechanical  process ;  that '  the  workers,  in  their  long 
hours  of  monotonous  employment,  were  given  to  meditation; 
and  thus,  from  their  double  vocation,  came  perhaps  that  air  of 
serious  dignity  common  among  the  better  class  of  farm-house 
women. 

Nothing  could  be  more  picturesque  or  prettier,  in  country  life, 
than  the  little  flax- wheel,  with  well-filled  distaff,  being  plied  in 
a  shady  doorway  by  comely  matron  or  rosy  lass.  The  loom, 
with  its  web  and  weaver,  made  a  classic  picture;  and  its  con- 
tinuous thud,  sounding  hour  after  hour  from  an  upper  room, 
was  a  symbol  of  that  pathetic  patience  which  entered  so  largely 
into  the  lives  of  working  women. 

The  fore  room  was  seldom  used.  It  was  rather  a  store-room 
for  household  treasures;  for  such  things  as  had  been  bought 
with  hard-earned  money  were  highly  prized  by  these  simple 
people.  Its  furniture  was  the  costliest  and  most  modern,  as 
well  as  the  ugliest,  in  the  house.  It  was  a  sort  of  show-room. 
The  china  and  glass  in  its  cupboard  were  marvellously  fine,  and 
have  come  down  as  heirlooms.  They  are  suggestive  of  the 
tendencies  and  tastes  of  women,  who  are  traditionally  most 
charming,  through  simplicity,  because,  from  the  force  of  their 


76 


NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 


condition,  their  lives  could  not  be  otherwise  than  simple.  Their 
merit,  therefore,  is  not  so  much  in  the  fact  that  they  lived  so 
near  nature,  which  they  could  not  help  doing, — that  they  took 
to  themselves  a  beauty  of  which  they  knew  not, — as  that,  while 
possessing  the  common  instincts  of  woman,  they  bore  burdens 
with  heroic  patience,  and,  through  long,  hard-worked  lives,  kept 


up  a  holiday  simulation  of  that  ease  and  luxury  which  was  not 
their  own.  _ 

A  narrow  flight  of  stairs  led,  from  the  front  entry,  up  to  the 
guest-chambers.  One  of  them  was  haunted.  The  ghost  of  this 
room  was  a  harmless  thing.  A  child  of  the  house,  Oily  by  name, 
had  been  found  crushed  in  the  woodland  by  a  fallen  tree.  It 
was  so  long  ago  that  his  little  grave  had  sunk  far  below  its 


THE  FARM-HOUSE. 


1 t 


fellows ;  yet  his  memory  had  been  kept  fresher  than  the  turf 
above  it  by  the  legend  of  this  east  chamber.  Its  furnishings 
were  quaint  and  homely :  a  huge  oaken  chest  of  drawers,  rush- 
bottomed  chairs,  and  a  low  bedstead  hung  with  checked  brown 
and  white  linen.  Between  the  two  front  windows  was  a  looking- 
glass  in  a  queer  little  frame,  with  a  silhouette  picture  of  my 
grandfather  and  grandmother  on  either  side  of  it.  In  a  cup- 
board by  the  chimney  was  a  set  of  fine  china,  painted  in  flowing 
blue. 

In  through  its  windows  came  the  eternal,  ever-shifting  glory 
of  the  outlying  landscape.  As  I  looked  out  of  these  windows 
on  summer  mornings,  my  heart  grew  full,  like  a  heart  touched 
by  love,  so  profuse  in  variety  and  beauty  was  the  scenery  of  this 
wild,  lonely  spot. 


li 


SPRING-TIME   AND    HAYING. 

THERE  is  no  end  to  the  coquetry  of  a  New  England  spring. 
Some  early  March  morning  you  look  out  upon  a  waste  of  snow. 
You  are  weary  of  it ;  you  long  to  see  life  and  growth  and  verdure 
come  into  the  dead  landscape.  Old  winter  flings  back  against 
the  pane  scuds  of  snow  and  sleet.  Then  come  dark  days,  clinging 
mists  and  warm  rains,  trying  to  patience  and  evil  for  invalids. 
Little  water  channels,  with  a  melancholy  gurgle,  undermine  the 
snow-banks.  There  is  everywhere  a  gradual  subsidence  of  sur- 
face. Tops  of  tall  rocks  peep  out ;  highways  get  to  be  wellnigh 
impassable;  cellars  grow  wet;  brooks  begin  to  roar  and  rivers 
78 


SPRING-TIME  AND  HAYING.  79 

to  rise  ;  there  is  a  universal  sizzling  and  steaming.  This  grizzly, 
dispiriting  commotion  is  the  birth-throe  of  spring.  Shortly  the 
mossy  housetops  begin  to  smoke ;  the  fields  and  pastures  are  full 
of  bare  knolls  and  patches ;  fences,  which  have  been  winter- 
buried,  once  more  zigzag  through  the  landscape,  and  dark  lines 
mark  the  lanes  and  highways.  Leaf-buds  swell,  and  the  frosts 
of  the  night  melt  before  the  morning  sunshine.  Little  boys 
trundle  their  sap-buckets  through  the  pastures,  and  you  see 
that  the  yearly  marvel  of  verdure  is  being  inwrought  into  the 
branches  and  twigs  of  the  bare  forests.  Another  season  of  seed- 
time and  harvest  will  be  born  unto  you. 

Chimney  corners  are  deserted;  farmers  begin  to* bestir  them- 
selves. They  sort  over  their  seeds,  put  in  repair  their  farm 
utensils,  and,  before  they  get  fully  harnessed  to  their  out-of-door 
work,  attend  to  their  town  affairs.  What  country-bred  boy  or 
girl  does  not  remember  that  yearly  meeting,  when  all  the  voters 
of  the  town  swarmed  about  its  great,  bare  hall,  and  cast  into 
the  ballot-box  those  tickets  the  making  up  of  which  had  cost 
months  of  logic  in  the  village  stores  and  much  hard  feeling 
among  honest  neighbors  ?  All  the  children  were  politicians  that 
day ;  and  the  moderator,  generally  chosen  for  his  loud  voice,  was 
as  distinguished  to  them  as  if  he  had  been  made  President  of  the 
whole  republic.  The  elective  process  was*  a  slow  one;  often  so 
hotly  contested  that  the  count  for  representative  to  General 
Court  was  hardly  reached  at  nightfall.  The  little  boys  who 
peddled  molasses  candy  (most  of  it  badly  burned)  gave  out  the 
bulletins  of  its  progress.  The  slumpy  drifts  had  to  be  cut  down 


80  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

beforehand  to  make  the  roads  passable,  over  which,  when  their 
votes  were  needed,  the  feeble  old  men  were  taken  at  the  ex- 
pense of  their  party.  The  breaking  up  of  the  meeting  was 
shown,  to  waiting  housewives,  by  the  thickening  on  the  high- 
way of  returning  farmers,  most  of  them  laden  with  budgets 
of  gingerbread  and  candy.  The  women  were  as  anxious  for 
news  as  if  there  had  been  a  great  battle,  and  the  zest  of  the 
day,  to  the  children,  was  only  surpassed  by  that  of  the  annual 
muster. 

This  muster,  or  "  training  day,"  as  it  was  more  often  called, 
was  their  best  holiday,  when  the  militia  was  drilled  in  a  vacant 
lot  of  some  fortunate  town.  What  child  ever  forgot  that  show 
when  once  seen?  As  an  early  experience  or  a  remembered 
picture,  what  could  surpass  it  ?  How  real  the  soldiers  were  with 
their  muskets  and  bright  uniforms !  What  a  great  man  the 
captain  was !  And  the  drum-major,  who  ever  saw  his  like  ? 
What  a  marvel  of  discipline  the  soldiers  showed !  what  uniformity 
of  step !  what  skill  in  evolution !  what  success  of  officers  in 
horsemanship !  All  day  long  they  went  through  their  drills, 
and  the  gaping  crowd  stared  and  marvelled,  half  taking  this 
play  for  a  real  thing  and  these  men  for  true  soldiers.  Before 
daylight,  from  the  country  miles  around,  wagons  full  of  living 
freight  began  to  pour^nto  the  field,  until  it  was  half  packed  with 
sight-seers.  These  wagons  were  drawn  close  up  by  the  wall  as 
a  safe  place  for  the  girls  and  younger  children.  The  unharnessed 
horses,  to  be  kept  quiet  with  hay,  were  tied  close  by,  and  the 
larger  boys  got  astride  the  wall  or  climbed  into  neighboring 


SPRING-TIME  AND  HAYING.  81 

trees.  Booths  were  put  up,  and  pedlers'  carts  stood  thick  in 
an  inner  ring.  Gingerbread  and  candy  were  the  staple  articles 
of  trade,  with  such  bright  gauds  as  would  be  likely  to  catch  an 
uncritical  eye.  It  was  the  custom  for  lasses  to  receive  presents 
on  this  day,  and  because  of  this  many  a  hard:earned  penny  was 
foolishly  spent.  It  was  amusing  to  see  the  plain  farmers  going 
about  with  their  red  bandanna  handkerchiefs  (show  things)  full 
of  gingerbread,  the  extent  of  their  day's  dissipation.  It  was  good 
gingerbread,  with  a  sort  of  training  flavor,  which  died  out  with 
the  giving  up  of  the  custom  of  the  day.  At  noon,  when  the 
soldiers  dispersed  for  dinner,  the  most  adventurous  boys  followed 
the  great  officers  to  the  tavern,  and  looked  in  at  the  windows 
to  see  them  eat,  whispering  to  each  other  of  the  prowess  of  these 
dangerous  men.  It  was  not  considered  respectable  for  young 
girls  to  wander  about  among  the  crowd,  so  they  lunched  in  the 
wagons,  or  on  the  greensward  by  them,  and  their  nooning  was 
the  harvest  of  the  dealers  in  gingerbread. 

The  climax  of  the  drill  was  the  firing  off  of  the  guns,  which 
brought  many  an  urchin  down  from  his  perch  as  quickly  as  if  he 
had  been  shot  in  the  head.  Unbred  horses  did  not  relish  the 
day,  and  were  constantly  making  little  side  stampedes,  no  less 
exciting  than  the  drill  itself.  A  shower  took  all .  the  feather 
and  glory  out  of  the  show,  and  sent  soldiers  flying  in  front  of 
the  crowd.  Before  nightfall  parties  got  mixed.  Soldiers  mistook 
themselves  for  citizens,  and  citizens  forgot  the  deference  due  to 
soldiers.  It  was  generally  growing  to  be  truly  warlike,  when 
at  order  of  the  great  captain  the  trainers,  led  by  music  of  bugle 


82  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

and  drum,  marched  magnificently  from  the  field.  The  crowd 
waited.  Men,  women,  and  children  seemed  to  devour  with  their 
eyes  this  departing  glory;  this  toy  pageant,  which  had  given 
them  a  merry  day;  this  mock  soldiery,  which  had  stimulated 
patriotic  virtue;  this  thing,  which  was  not  foolish  because  it 
was  so  real  to  them.  When  it  had  fairly  passed  out  of  sight 
each  went  his  and  her  own  way,  and,  almost  before  the  drum 
had  stopped  playing  its  marching  tune,  the  field  was  deserted. 

By  the  first  of  May  morning  sunshine  begins  to  have  power, 
and  through  your  windows  comes  the  gladsome  gush  of  spring 
birds.  The  buried  life  of  nature  has  burst  its  cerements ;  the 
earth  is  mellowing;  trees  are  leaving,  and  sods  are  waiting  to 
be  turned.  Here  and  there,  under  the  shady  side  of  fences 
or  on  distant  hill -tops,  lie  strips  of  dingy  snow.  You  do  not 
mind  them,  for  your  feet  walk  over  crisp  mosses  and  tender 
grass ;  you  rustle  aside  last  year's  perished  leaves  for  arbutus, 
and  close  beside  these  same  snow-strips  you  find  violets.  Anon 
the  landscape  grows  .picturesque  with  the  blue  frocks  and  red 
shirts  of  farm  laborers,  with  ploughs  and  bonfires  and  oxen 
and  children  and  slowly-moving  carts. 

To  the  farmer  there  seems  to  be  no  end  to  spring  labor. 
Sowing  and  planting  over,  the  upspringing  seed  is  to  be  care- 
fully watched  and  tended.  Each  day  brings  its  weight  of  ever- 
varying  cares.  The  New  England  farmer  of  moderate  means 
truly  gets  his  bread  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow.  The  vegetables 
and  grains,  which  make  up  so  large  a  portion  of  his  fare,  are 
raised  by  dint  of  prudent  forecast,  and  the  bringing  to  bear 


SPMINU-TIME  AND  HAYING. 


83 


of  much  practical  philosophy  upon  stingy  soil.  In  the  spring, 
my  grandfather  and  his  one  man-servant,  with  an  occasional 
day  of  foreign  help,  were  equal  to  the  work  of  the  farm.  But 
in  haying-time,  thrice  a  day,  a  score  or  more  of  stout-limbed 


laborers  gathered  around  my  grandfather's  board,  and  the  cup- 
board in  the  brown  kitchen  groaned  under  its  weight  of  hearty 
viands.  Sudden  showers  brought  over  willing  neighbors,  and 
now  and  then  a  traveller  would  stop  a  day  or  two  to  lend  a 


84  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

helping  hand.     My  grandmother  held  these  "  transients"  in  low 
esteem. 

These  old  New  England  farmers  were  apt  to  be  "close"  with 
their  money.  Who  could  blame  them  if  they  were  ?  The  gains 
of  most  of  them  came  by  slow  accretions,  and  their  lives  were 
at  warfare  with  the  elements.  They  were  generous  in  personal 
service,  and  where  they  would  grudgingly  give  you  a  penny, 
they  did  not  hesitate  to  use  their  strength  for  you.  They  were 
watchful  to  help  with  your  exposed  harvest,  and  they  pitched 
and  pulled  and  tugged  and  sweat  for  you  without  thought  of 
reward.  They  were  a  well-informed  class.  Seed  planting  and 
hoeing  their  corn  and  potatoes,  in  dusty  and  uncouth  •  attire, 
they  seemed  like  patient  animals.  In  talking  with  them  one 
was  astonished  at  their  intelligence,  begotten  of  their  application 
and  their  dealings  with  nature.  They  had  been  well  taught 
geography,  grammar,  and  arithmetic.  If  a  broad  provincialism 
marred  their  speech,  it  was  not  because  they  knew  little  of  the 
construction  of  language.  They  were  apt  with  rules,  and  were 
better  versed  in  the  laws,  which  ought  to  have  moulded  their 
words,  than  many  men  and  women  of  politer  tongue.  They 
were  learned  in  whatever  pertained  to  their  craft,  only  that 
their  knowledge  was  marred  by  a  certain  obstinate  credulity. 
Students  of  almanacs,  they  became  weatherwise  from  watching 
the  clouds.  Clinging  to  the  traditions  of  their  fathers,  they 
were  still  not  unskilful  chemists  for  the  soils  which  made  up 
their  own  farms.  They  learned  from  practice  the  right  rotation 
of  crops,  and  thriftily  turned  their  farm-waste  into  food  for  their 


SPRING-TIME  AND   HAYING.  85 

fields.  They  cared  little  for  trees  or  shrubs  or  flowers,  but  readily 
fenced  out  for  the  housewife  a  sunny  garden-patch.  Weeds  in- 
fested their  fields  and  marred  their  crops;  children  trampled 
down  their  grass ;  thieving  birds  pecked  at  their  corn  and  grain. 
They  were  a  much-tried  race,  with  sun  and  wind  as  often  working 
them  ill  as  good,  yet  they  kept  their  courage  and  tempers  mar- 
vellously well.  Rough,  with  an  undercurrent  of  softness ;  not 
cultivated  yet  wise;  nursed  by  nature  and  led  by  Bible  pre- 
cepts; above  all  they  pleased  you  by 'the  healthy  content  with 
which  they  accepted  their  condition. 

In  winter,  sitting  on  wooden  benches  by  the  stoves  of  country 
stores,  they  used  to  discourse  and  take  counsel  together.  They 
much  loved  discussion,  and  party  spirit  ran  high.  Affairs  of  town 
and  State  and  nation  were  handled  with  rude  but  close  logic. 
These  stores  were  queer  places,  full  of  all  sorts  of  commodities, 
smelling  strong  of  codfish,  molasses,  and  snuff,  and  too  often  of 
New  England  rum.  In  long  summer  afternoons  the  humbler  class 
of  farmers'  wives  went  to  them  to  exchange  dairy  products  for 
dry  goods  and  groceries.  A  fresh  supply  of  "  storekeepers' " 
wares  made  a  great  stir.  The  women  overlooked  and  talked 
about  the  meagre  stock,  and  strung  washed  samples  of  its  calicoes 
upon  their  window-sills  to  dry.  They  used  to  go  past  my 
grandfather's,  to  the  store  beyond  the  miller's  red  cottage,  with 
wooden  boxes  tied  up  in  squares  of  white  cotton.  These  were 
full  of  butter.  The  more  opulent  of  them  drove  clumsy  wagons 
filled  with  various  farm  products  good  for  barter. 

Simple  shoppers,  but  makers  of  rare  bargains,  inasmuch  as 

12 


86  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

the  stuffs  you  bought  brought  you  solid  comfort  and  true  de- 
light. They  washed  well  and  wore  well,  and  the  silk  and  sheen, 
which  were  not  in  their  real  texture,  were  •  imparted  to  them 
by  the  satisfaction  which  you  had  in  them.  Country  maidens 
fitted  their  calicoes  with  care,  and  wore  them  with  exquisite 
neatness.  If  they  overrated  the  fineness,  the  dyes,  and  the  be- 
comingness  of  the  fabrics,  it  was  because  their  color  blindness 
and  their  worldly  ignorance  helped  them  to  be  made  satisfied 
and  happy  by  very  little  things.  They  were  as  acceptable  to 
each  other  and  to  their  sweethearts  in  calico  as  they  would 
have  been,  fashion  taught,  in  silks  and  laces. 

The  candies  of  these  stores  were  the  delight  of  children.  The 
red  and  white  hearts  shut  up  in  dingy,  brass-mouthed  jars  were 
in  reality  stale,  but  to  the  buyers  of  them  the  freshness  which 
they  lacked  was  given  to  them  by  their  rarity. 

The  keepers  of  the  stores,  having  leisure,  were  apt  to  be  men 
of  much  intelligence.  I  found  one  of  them,  on  an  August  day, 
sitting  just  outside  his  shop,  his  chair  tilted  back  against  the 
wall,  so  wrapped  up  in  a  translation  of  Homer's  Iliad  that  he 
had  no  ear  for  a  bargain.  His  recreation  only  illustrated,  what 
is  ever  true  of  country  life,  that  it  holds  in  silence  and  humility 
many  thinkers.  This  store  was  perched  upon  a  hill,  in  an  out- 
of-the-way  place.  All  the  inhabitants  of  the  little  village  seemed 
to  be  either  at  work  or  play  in  its  adjoining  fields.  He  sat  there 
alone,  an  old  man,  tall,  massive,  white-haired,  his  face  beneficent 
with  the  peace  of  an  untroubled  life.  He  peered  from  over  his 
iron-bound  spectacles,  keeping  his  place  in  his  book  with  his 


SPRING-TIME  AND  HAYING.  87 

forefinger,  and  answered  my  questions  in  an  abstracted  way,  as 
if  I  were  a  bother  to  him.  He  was  a  beautiful  picture  of  a 
vigorous  happy  old  age.  The  pomps  and  vanities  and  vexations 
of  society  were  nothing  to  him,  and  yet  he  was  consorting 
with  the  best;  and  the  glory  of  intellect  and  of  age,  and  the 
bright  splendor  of  the  summer's  day,  wrapped  him  about  like  a 
garment. 

The  rum  of  those  country  stores  made  terrible  drunkards, 
whose  vices  and  idiosyncrasies  were  brought  out,  by  their  isola- 
tion, with  clear-cut  distinctness.  Their  wives  were  white-faced, 
hopeless  women;  their  houses  were  dismal  with  the  signs  of  a 
drunkard's  unthrift.  The  whole  tragedy  was  so  plainly  stamped 
that  he  who  ran  might  read.  No  home  was  ever  so  little  of  a 
home  as  that  of  a  drunkard  in  the  country ;  no  life  ever  seemed 
so  utterly  unnatural,  so  warped  a  life  as  his.  The  very  blessings 
of  his  inheritance  mocked  at  him.  Space  and  quiet  and  sun- 
shine and  verdure,  and  every  other  thing  which  especially  marks 
country  life,  only  made  more  apparent  his  poverty  and  degra- 
dation. One  could  always  tell  the  home  of  a  drunkard,  with 
its  clapboards  and  shingles  slipping  off;  its  windows  stuffed  with 
rags ;  its  unhinged  doors ;  its  tumbling  outbuildings,  shattered, 
ragged,  leaning,  tottering,  solemn  with  the  unutterable  pathos 
of  a  lost  life. 

If  you  have  never  lived  in  the  country,  you  can  have  no 
idea  what  grim  and  strange  and  repulsive  spectacles  these  men 
become,  on  the  surface  of  its  pure,  calm,  undemonstrative  life. 
I  recall  three  who,  on  town-meeting  and  training  days,  used 


88  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

to  stagger  up  and  down  the  highways.  Children  shrank  from 
them  as  if  they  had  been  lepers.  One  of  them  had  children 
of  his  own,  who  grew  up  rough  and  wicked,  and  became  the 
outlaws  of  the  neighborhood;  to  whom  the  fair  landscape  was 
only  a  field  for  plunder,  and  against  whom  the  hearts  of  all 
the  village  people  seemed  to  be  turned.  God  forgive  them! 
circumstance  was  hard  upon  them, — they  were  only  drunkard's 
children. 

Another  was  once  possessed  of  a  brilliant  intellect.  Poor,  lost 
man !  his  house  was  the  forlornest  of  all ;  perched  high  on  a 
hill,  tumbling,  and  fluttering  with  rags.  His  large  and  once 
valuable  farm  was  overrun  with  brambles.  His  wife  was  never 
seen  outside  her  wretched  home.  Her  existence  grew  to  be  a 
sort  of  myth.  She  died  and  was  buried,  and  no  one  missed 
her. 

Jim,  who  danced  in  his  cups,  was  foolish  and  diverting  to 
the  youngsters ;  still  his  antics  seemed  disgustingly  uncouth  in 
the  decorous  quiet  of  a  country  town. 

When  a  young  child,  I  went  to  the  sale  of  a  drunkard's  home 
with  the  lawyer  who  had  the  foreclosure  of  a  mortgage  upon 
it.  If  I  live  to  be  a  hundred  years  old  I  shall  never  forget  that 
sale.  The  place  had  once  been  a  fruitful  one,  and  had  come 
down  from  father  to  son  through  several  generations.  Drunk- 
enness had  wrested  it  from  the  hands  of  him  from  whom  it  was 
to  be  sold.  The  man's  wife  was  a  handsome  but  heart-broken 
woman.  I  shall  never  behold  a  look  of  more  utter  despair  than 
that  which  her  face  wore  that  day.  It  was  a  harsh  scene :  I 


SPRING-TIME  AND  HAYING.  89 

see  and  hear  it  all, — the  mocking  sunbeams ;  the  loud  voice  of 
the  auctioneer;  the  coarse  laughter  of  the  crowd;  the  woman, 
pacing  the  floor,  sighing,  never  speaking,  and  as  ghastly  as  if 
she  had  been  among  the  dead.  The  final  bid  came.  With  one 
wail  she  went  out  of  the  room,  and  I  never  saw  her  more. 

The  processes  by  which  the  year  brings  about  her  miracles 
are  full  of  beauty.  The  humblest  farm  laborer  can  take  no 
working  posture  which  will  not  be  picturesque,  framed  into  a 
spring  landscape.  I  recall  the  grain-sower  flinging  broadcast 
his  seed ;  frolicksome  urchins  dropping  the  sprouting  bulbs ; 
bonfires  from  last  year's  stubble  and  new  clearings,  giving  brown 
shadow  to  outlying  verdure.  Hoeing  and  ploughing  and  carting 
and  cutting  and  digging ;  the  men  who  worked,  and  the  works 
they  fashioned,  were  moulded  into  the  earth's  form  and  sub- 
stance. It  was  as  if  the  country  were  an  ever-shifting  kalei- 
doscope, constantly  changing  old  forms  and  hues  into  new  shades 
and  shapes. 

Its  marvels  began  with  the  breaking  up  of  brooks,  when  they 
started  to  roar  and  tumble  and  overflow  their  banks.  The  fish, 
which  at  night  flashed  by  in  these  spring  waters,  gave  a  tran- 
sient sport  to  men  and  boys,  who  sought  for  them  by  light  of 
pitchpine  torches.  Flitting  about  with  nets  and  spears,  in  the 
uncertain  blaze  of  their  bonfires,  their  loud  shouts  heard  above 
the  roaring  of  the  stream,  they  gave  a  weird  aspect  to  the  val- 
ley; a  charming  exaggeration  of  the  untamed  scenery  of  early 
spring-time. 

Nothing  gives  more  expression  to  a  field  or  pasture  than  one 


90 


NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 


of  these  brooks.  Its  wonders  never  cease.  Its  spring  fury  and 
overflow  last  but  a  few  days.  It  is,  in  fact,  a  most  placid  thing, 
rippling  over  smooth  pebbles  or  pliant  grass,  pure,  transparent, 
and  enticing..  It  is  prettiest  when  running,  in  and  out  its  tor- 


tuous way,  through  pasture-knolls,  full  of  rocky  fords,  its  banks 
rich  with  ferns  and  wild  flag  and  orchis, — or,  better  still,  through 
the  heart  of  an  old  wood,  where  it  grows  mysterious,  and  hugs 
to  its  soggy  sides  such  plants  as  love  shade  and  moisture.  A 
brook  is  one  of  the  friendliest,  sweetest  things  you  can  stumble 
upon  in  your  wanderings ;  and  the  one  which  you  first  knew  is 


SPRING-TIME  AND  HAYING.  91 

remembered  with  much  tenderness, — the  dense  woodland  from 
whence  it  came ;  the  ferns  and  pallid  grass,  which  were  half 
dragged  out  with  it ;  the  pebbly  bed,  into  which  it  widened ; 
the  dark  pool,  beloved  by  trout;  the  show  of  coltsfoot,  beset 
by  housewives ;  the  sharp-pointed  rocks,  which  helped  you  over ; 
the  patch  of  orchis,  and  the  long  stretch  of  rushes ;  the  mint 
and  the  bog  onions, — but  why  go  on  ?  for  this  babbler  was  my 
brook  and  not  yours  ! 

As  the  season  wore  on  grasses  grew  stout  and  tall ;  heavy 
showers  lodged  them ;  and  truant  boys  and  girls  made  unthrifty 
paths  through  the  fields.  Farmers  began  to  whet  their  scythes 
and  plant  their  grindstones  under  shady  trees ;  sure  signs  of 
coming  haying.  The  delights  of  those  hayings  have  outlasted 
years,  and  the  aroma  of  them  still  pervades  every  ripened  field. 
Time  has  not  changed  the  teeming  life  of  nature.  When  I  see 
little  heads  bobbing  up  and  down  in  yonder  meadow  yellow 
with  buttercups,  I  remember  that  strawberries  used  to  grow 
where  buttercups  blossomed.  New  shadows  are  chasing  each 
other  over  ripening  grain ;  familiar  fruits  lie  everywhere ;  the 
forest-trees,  just  as  they  used,  overlap  each  other  with  shaded 
folds  of  intense  verdure.  Fulness  of  sunshine  falls  everywhere 
on  fulness  of  vegetation.  Back  to  me,  through  the  features  of 
the  present,  come  memories  of  the  past. 

Late  in  June  I  hear  a  familiar  sound, — the  sharp  click  of  a 
scythe  making  a  beginning  of  the  mid-year  harvest.  The  year 
is  waxing  old.  The  yellow  stubble  of  the  first  mown  field  tells 
that ;  and  it  has  a  suggestive  desolateness.  What  odor  so  sweet 


92       .  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

as  that  of  new-mown  hay  ?  It  is  the  breath  of  the  dying  grass, 
of  which  there  is  no  wisp  so  small  that,  when  I  sever  it,  it  shall 
not  send  forth  this  delicious  scent  to  tell  me  of  bygone  days 
of  abundant  and  beautiful  harvests. 

Of  all  the  waste  luxuriance  which  the  earth  pours  forth  in 
her  yearly  ripening,  this  is  the  most  beautiful  and  beautifying. 
Lying  broadcast  upon  fields,  threading  them  in  careless  wind- 
rows ;  flung  together  in  heaps ;  trailing  from  .ladened  carts ; 
crowning  oxen  and  laborers  with  fantastic  wreaths ;  in  whatever 
place  it  finds  or  flings  itself,  it  is  the  same  delightful,  sweet- 
scented,  dying  grass.  There  is  no  earth  so  flat,  no  landscape 
so  tame,  that  its  yearly  hay  harvest  shall  not  undulate  it  into 
lines  of  beauty.  Up  and  down  the  dusty  highway,  jolting  about 
uneven  fields,  the  homely  carts  used  to  go,  gathering  up  their 
precious  loads,  slowly  wreathing  their  rails  and  wheels  and 
shafts. 

I  can  see  my  grandfather  wiping  the  sweat  from  his  brow, 
and  curiously  eying  the  sky, — treacherous  sky,  playing  pranks 
with  the  best  plans  and  labors,  but  all-creative  in  putting  new 
life  into  a  summer  landscape.  Piling  up,  snow-white,  these  clouds 
come,  some  hot  August  afternoon,  out  of  the  horizon,  very  beau- 
tiful at  first,  but  treacherous,  and  the  dread  of  hay-makers. 
They  at  once  define  their  edges  with  a  soft-tinted  rose  color, 
and  grow  apace.  They  roll  on,  with  stately  march,  towards 
the  zenith,  right  over  the  anxious  workers  and  waiting  harvests. 
Growing  angry,  getting  lurid,  overlapping  each  other  with  brazen 
folds,  threatening,  they  sound  their  warning  of  low-muttered 


SPRING-TIME  AND  HAYING.  93 

thunder,  condense  their  brightness  into  vivid  lightning,  and  the 
whole  sky  grows  dense  and  black  with  pent-up  waters. 

Farmers  used  to  fly  to  each  other's  aid  at  such  times,  running 
like  bees  about  the  fields,  goading  and  urging  on  their  laggard 


oxen, — Broad  and  Bright  and  Cherry  and  Star.  Carts  strained 
and  groaned  like  living  things ;  clouds  flew  higher  and  higher  ; 
little  children  tugged  in  the  eager  race;  the  hay  blew  out  in 
long  streamers  with  the  wild  winds;  the  scurrying . drops  came 
thicker  and  thicker;  the  storm  burst  at  last;  when,  as  if  by 

13 


94  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

magic,  men  and  oxen  and  teams  vanished,  and  the  wind  and 
rain  had  their  way  with  the  mown  and  unmown  grasses  left  in 
the  fields. 

The  noonings  were  bright  features  of  a  haying  landscape.  At 
summons  of  horn,  away  went  the  workers  through  lanes  and 
highways  to  their  noontide  meal.  More  often,  to  save  time, 
they  took  it  in  the  field.  I  see  and  hear  it  all, — men  stretching 
their  brawny  limbs  upon  the  hay-heaps ;  oxen  chewing  the  new- 
mown  grass  under  shadow  of  their  loads ;  barefooted  boys  and 
girls  scudding  about  with  lunch-pails  and  pitchers ;  the  drone 
of  bees ;  the  chirrup  of  grasshoppers ;  the  babbling  of  the  brook ; 
the  lapping  of  the  mill-pond  ;  and  many  undertones  of  nature 
brought  out  by  the  unusual  quiet  of  this  hour.  Oh  the  peace, 
the  glory,  given  by  those  summer  noonings  to  the  tired  bodies 
and  cramped  souls  of  working  men  !  Whether  they  knew  it  or 
not,  something  of  the  fervor  of  the  meridian  sunshine,  some- 
thing of  the  earnestness  of  'the  mid-day  nature,  something  of 
the  fulness  of  the  mid-year  harvest  went  into  them,  through 
their  senses,  and  bore  fruit  in  thankfulness  and  patience.  Some- 
thing of  the  narrowness  of  their  ordinary  lives  went  out  of  them 
unawares. 

The  nooning  over,  bustle  again  prevailed.  There  was  no 
faltering,  no  let  up,  until  the  horn  gave  notice  of  the  evening 
meal.  Then,  through  lanes  and  highway,  fields  let  out  their 
workers,  who  cheered  their  homeward  way  with  simple  talk. 
They  went  over  the  day's  labors ;  forecasted  the  sky,  and  planned 
the  toils  of  the  morrow ;  prone  all  to  the  rest  of  the  coming 


SPRING-TIME  AND  HAYING. 


95 


night.  Into  the  barns  were  shoved  the  ladened  racks,  to  be 
emptied  in  the  early  morning;  down  into  the  west  sank  the 
sun ;  over  the  beautiful  creation  of  the  harvest  fell  the  older 
beauty  of  night ;  and  unto  weariness,  and  to  the  patience  of 
labor,  past  and  to  come,  floated,  with  noiseless  motion,  sweet, 
dreamless,  strength-giving  sleep. 


E  were  would-be  haymakers, 
Benny  and  I,  jogging  along 
with  Jonathan  the  man-servant 
in  an  old  market  -  wagon,  to- 
wards our  grandfather's  farm. 
As  remembered,  we  made  a 

homely  load,  but  a  happy  one.  We  were  half  wild  with  joy, 
and  chattered  like  magpies  all  the  way  about  our  promised 
delights. 

The  whole  universe  was  ours  that  day.  We  were  not  simply 
wayfarers  to  our  grandfather's  farm,  but  travellers  at  large; 
and  the  narrow  circle  of  the  horizon  seemed  as  vast  to  us  as 
the  belt  of  the  whole  continent  would  now.  We  felt  well ;  and 
if,  in  passing,  travellers  eyed  us  sharply,  we  were  sure  that  they 


THE    VISIT. 


97 


knew  us  for  young  haymakers.  It  never  occurred  to  us  that 
our  equipage  was  unusual.  The  only  fault  we  found  was  with 
the  slowness  of  our  pace  and  the  jolting  of  the  springless  wagon; 
but  the  one  gave  our  quick  eyes  a  chance  to  spy  out  way-side 
wonders,  and  the  other  sent  the  blood  into  our  cheeks.  I  am 
quite  sure  that  we  had  a  better  time  than  we  should  have  had 
with  my  grandfather's  pretentious 
chaise  and  one  of  his  smarter 
horses. 

I  can  see  now  the  yellow  lilies 
we  counted  among  the  pines  that 
day.     I  have  loved  yellow  lilies 
ever  since.      They  were  cheerful 
things      to      a 
child's   eye,   gleaming   out 
from    an   old  forest.      They   were 
almost  as  pretty  alongside  the  front 
door -steps    of    unpainted    country- 
houses,  where  they  paled 
somewhat,       multiplied, 
and    grew    in     clumps; 
whereas    in    the    forest 
each   blossom  stood   by  itself 
in  flaunting  brightness,   and  seemed 
to  come  out  of  the  wood  to  meet  you. 

The  country  through  which  we   passed   on  our  journey  was 
sparsely  settled,  and  mostly  covered  with  a  thin  forest  of  old 


98  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

pines.  This  forest  was  full  of  a  shaggy  undergrowth  of  scrub- 
oaks  and  knolls  of  low  huckleberry-bushes.  The  day  was  hot, 
and  everything  glowed  with  sunlight.  In  vain  we  turned  our 
umbrella  this  way  and  that.  Its  whalebones  creaked ;  the  sun's 
rays  pierced  straight  through  it,  past  our  straw  hats,  into  our 
little  brains ;  and  we  settled  down,  only  to  have  our  shoulders 
half  baked  by  the  high  wagon-back.  The  sand  of  the  road-side 
glittered;  the  wheel-tires  sank  into  it  and  came  up  hot  and 
bright.  Each  stone  was  a  reflecting  mirror,  and  the  business 
of  every  leaf  and  twig  seemed  to  be  to  absorb  and  send  forth 
heat.  The  quiet  was  so  perfect  that  the  slightest  crackle  of  a 
twig  was  distinctly  heard.  Yet,  underlying  this  glare  and  seem- 
ing silence  was  a  certain  positive  procession  of  sound. 

We  shut  our  eyes  from  sheer  weariness,  and  were  lulled  to 
sleep  by  this  soft  drone  of  living,  growing,  ever-renewing  nature. 
You  country-livers  know  what  this  voice  is,  which  has  no  alphabet, 
no  written  language,  but  which  is  nevertheless  an  all-pervading, 
thrilling  monotone,  best  rendered  in  what  are  called  her  solitudes. 
Benny  said  he  could  hear  things  grow ;  and  surely  the  wise  little 
head  both  saw  and  heard  many  beautiful  things  that  day. 

So  we  young  haymakers  were  not  ashamed  of  the  springless, 
rattling  old  market- wagon.  Neither  were  we  ashamed  of  Jona- 
than, with  his  homespun  clothes  and  leathern  whip,  chewing 
his  cud  like  an  ox,  and  shouting  to  his  horse  with  a  never-ending 
"  git  ap."  This  horse  was  not  a  fine-looking  beast.  She  was  a 
true  farm-horse,  broad-backed  and  round-sided,  carrying  her 
head  low,  with  a  shaggy  mane.  She  was  old  and  not  ambitious, 


THE    VISIT.  99 

pacing  along,  at  the  rate  of  five  miles  an  hour,  with  a  lumbering 
gait  which  gave  a  double  jolt  to  the  clumsy  wagon.  She  was, 
however,  to  be  respected  for  her  age  and  her  safety ;  and,  known 
by  the  name  of  Betsy,  had  been  for  almost  thirty  years  carefully 
tended  by  the  family  of  which  she  was  a  true  member.  New 
England  farmers  were  all.  merciful  to  their  beasts  of  burden,  and 
this  kindness  was  a  natural  expression  of  the  ingrained  justice 
of  their  natures. 

But  one  horse  in  the  neighborhood  was  older  than  this  one 
of  my  grandfather's,  and  that  belonged  to  the  aged  minister  of 
the  parish.  His  horse,  roaming  at  large,  was  as  much  a  feature 
of  the  village  landscape  as  its  meeting-house  or  its  school-house. 
It  grew  into  the  history  and  the  traditions  of  the  place.  It  was 
an  unaggressive,  harmless  animal,  and  came  to  hold  a  sort  of 
feeble  kinship  with  all  the  villagers.  When  an  absentee  asked 
after  the  townspeople  and  their  affairs,  he  also  asked  after  the 
parson's  horse;  and  thus  the  unwitting  beast  came  to  be  a  repre- 
sentative of  an  enlarged  humanity.  This  horse,  long  toothless 
and  fed  upon  porridge,  was  so  defiant  of  .mortality  that,  out  of 
sheer  compassion,  it  was  slain  at  last  outside  the  village.  I 
verily  believe  that  the  young  men  and  maidens  of  the  parish 

who  had  grown   up  during  the  lifetime  of  this  dumb  creature, 

• 

and  were  used  to  the  constant  sight  of  it  by  the  way-side, 
mourned  the  loss  of  the  "  parson's  horse"  with  almost  a  sen- 
timent of  human  friendship. 

The  Betsy  of  my  grandfather's  must  have  come  of  hardy 
stock,  for  she,  too,  outlived  for  several  years  her  usefulness, 


100 


NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 


and  wandered  during  the  summer,  a  hobbling,  gray  pensioner, 
upon  the  shore  of  the  mill-pond,  where  one  day  she  was  found 
stark  and  stiff,  close  by  the  old  boat.  She  used,  when  past 
service,  to  limp  up  to  the  pasture-bars  and  lean  her  old  head 


upon  the  upper  rail,  giving  us  children  a  sort  of  blear-eyed 
recognition  which  was  quite  touching.  To  see  this  head  bobbing 
up  and  down  amongst  the  far-off  alder-bushes  was  as  pathetic 
to  our  child-hearts  as  if  the  poor  creature  could  have  talked  and 
reasoned  with  us.  We  were  glad  when  she  gave  up  the  ghost 


THE    VISIT.  101 

in  a  natural  way,  for  my  grandfather  could  not  consent  to  have 
her  killed. 

Benny  and  I  did  not  after  all  make  a  very  mean  appearance 
on  our  first  visit  alone  to  our  grandfather's  farm.  We  were 
only  two  untaught  children  going  to  a  haying.  Our  equipage 
and  our  dress  were  suited  to  our  calling.  We  were  bent  on  a 
kindly  errand, — we  were  to  carry  youth  and  cheerfulness,  and 
so  joy,  into  the  great  lonely  house  of  an  old  man.  Being  imagi- 
native children,  and  having  little  book  learning,  that  which  we 
desired  to  believe,  and  which  fact  failed  to  give  us,  we  coined 
out  of  our  own  brains.  The  seven-mile  sandy  plain,  with  its 
pines  and  dwarf-oaks,  we  declared  to  be  no  less  than  forty  miles 
long ;  whilst  a  moderate-sized  pond  Benny  confidently  whispered 
behind  Jonathan's  back  could  be  no  other  than  the  Dead  Sea 
itself.  Yet  this  simple-hearted  Benny  was  over-wise  for  his 
years  about  everything  which  could,  be  coaxed  by  search  and 
observation  from  the  outlying  landscape  of  his  home,  and  he 
was,  besides,  a  charming  young  romancer.  It  is  delightful  to 
go  back  to  one's  days  of  just  such  fresh-hearted  credulity.  Some 
of  our  childhood  faiths  may  have  been  very  foolish  indeed,  but 
many  of  them  were  beautiful,  and  we  are  tender  of  them  all  in 
memory  in  after-years.  We  can  afford  to  lose  none  of  them, 
for  these  same  foolish  beliefs  were  wise  to  us  once,  and  swelled 
the  sum  of  our  earthly  joys. 

In  my  grandfather's  time,  when  railroads  had  not  permeated 
Eastern  New  England,  a  long  journey  was  an  epoch  in  a  child's 
life ;  and  that  was  called  such  which  .was  accomplished  by  several 

14 


102  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

days  of  slow-paced  travel.  It  was  made  a  subject  for  private 
devotion  and  public  prayer.  "  Our  brother  and  sister  about  to 
go  on  a  long  journey"  became  marked  people  in  the  parish. 
Neighbors  "  dropped  in  of  evenings"  to  talk  the  matter  over ; 
and  it  was  dreamed  about  and  wrought  for  many  weeks  before- 
hand. The  finest  fabrics  of  the  house  were  set  aside  and  shaped 
over  for  that  child  who  was  going  to  Boston,  or  perhaps  to  some 
nearer  town ;  to  whom  most  likely  was  given  especial  and  lighter 
tasks,  as  one  upon  whom  the  unction  of  travel  had  already  fallen. 
The  night  before  the  start  was  a  busy  one  in  the  farm-house. 
Many  last  stitches  were  to  be  taken,  and  the  bandbox  or  small 
trunk  to  be  packed  by  the  careful  mother.  The  child's  ward- 
robe, made  for  the  occasion,  was  meagre,  but  clean  and  strong. 
It  was  the  best  the  farm  had  to  give,  and  was  fine  to  the  wearer. 
I  can  see  Farmer  Brown  starting  off  with  his  daughter  Sally, 
bound  for  Boston,  just  as  he  started  over  forty  years  ago.  He 
was  a  well-to-do  farmer,  homely,  but  shrewd  and  honest,  and 
had  held  high  places  of  town  trust.  How  exactly  he  is  recalled ! 
His  broad  collar  seems  to  cut  his  ears  with  its  sharp  edges,  and 
his  stock  clasps  his  neck  like  a  vice.  His  blue-black  homespun 
suit  has  been  long  made,  but  well  kept,  and  its  showy  buttons 
are  of  double  gilt.  Sally's  frock  is  of  store  calico,  with  a  white 
ruffle  in  the  neck.  The  shawl  she  wears,  of  some  printed  pongee 
stuff,  is  a  family  heirloom,  which  her  grandmother  wore  before 
her.  Her  bonnet,  too  gay  and  too  small  for  her,  has  just  come 
from  Boston,  a  gift  from  her  seldom-seen  uncle,  who  now  and 
then  thrusts-  a  town  gaud  upon  this  neglected  country  relative. 


THE   VISIT. 


103 


The  family  of  this  uncle  they  are  going  to  visit.  The  innocent 
souls  have  not  waited  for  an  invitation.  With  them  the  instinct 
of  kinship  is  as  strong  as  their  faith  in  their  religion.  For  six 
months  the  mother's  busy  brain  and  fingers  have  toiled  over 
fine  twined  threads  of  wheel  and  loom,  to  weave  for  this  young 


girl  an  outfit  suitable  for  this  great  occasion.  She  is  a  blithe- 
some lass,  just  grown  up,  and  is  engaged  to  teach  the  village 
school. 

They  climb  into  the  lumbering  wagon.  The  younger  children 
swarm  about  them,  whilst  the  dear  mother  stands  in  the  doorway 
with  bared  arms,  shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  and  watches 


104  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

them  until  they  are  gone  out  of  sight  under  the  hill.  Sally  is 
the  envy  of  all  the  other  village  girls,  and  mothers  gossip  to- 
gether of  this  weighty  journey  of  hers. 

Many  an  aged  country-reared  person,  knows  what  that  journey 
was  to  Sally;  how  grand  and  mysterious  the  town  seemed  to 
her,  with  its  many  streets,  its  crowds  of  people,  its  various  wares, 
and  its  many  lights;  how,  impressed  and  oppressed  by  it,  she 
grew  self-conscious  and  lonely,  and  wished  herself  home  again. 
Her  uncle's  house  was  an  enchanted  palace  to  her,  and  she  a 
dazed  girl  in  it.  It  was  revealed  to  her  that  what  pertained 
to  herself  and  to  her  father  was  not  in  keeping  with  her  sur- 
roundings. They  were  plainly-dressed,  homespun  country-people, 
well  clad  alongside  the  deep  greens  and  russet  browns  of  their 
farm,  but  ill  assorting  with  gay  town  fashions.  She  saw  and 
took  in  much.  Her  keen  senses  and  bright  mind  were  quickened 
to  a  wider  scope  by  this  somewhat  unpalatable  taste  of  strange 
living.  The  day  of  her  departure  was  a  relief  to  her.  She 
went  back  as  she  came,  except  that  she  was  lightly  laden  with 
simple  purchases.  She  was  as  warmly  welcomed  as  if  she  had 
come  from  a  foreign  land.  The  trinkets  she  had  bought  were 
as  marvellous  to  her  mother  and  the  other  children  as  they 
would  have  been  to  her  once.  She  somewhat  pitied  their  igno- 
rance, but  kept  her  own  counsel.  She  was  wiser  than  before 
she  went,  but  not  quite  so  happy.  A  glory  had  gone  out  of 
her  home  which  could  never  come  back.  Its  rooms  were  lower 
and  narrower ;  and  their  fitness  had  been  lost  from  the  garments 
which  had  been  fashioned  for  her  with  so  much  care.  Their 


THE    VISIT.  105 

textures  and  dyes  were  homespun,  and  so  less  esteemed.  She 
made  a  better  teacher  for  having  been  to  Boston,  because  she 
had  more  weight  with  her  scholars.  But  the  sweetest  relish 
of  her  rural  home  had  died  out  for  her.  In  later  years  it  came 
again,  as  a  delightful  memory.  She  would  then  have  given  half 
she  possessed  to  have  been  starting  once  more  from  the  old  farm- 
house, a  simple-hearted  girl  in  calico  by  the  side  of  the  home- 
spun father,  with  the  dear  mother  watching  her  from  the 
doorway. 

Our  old  horse  plodded  along  so  wearily  that  the  shadows  had 
grown  long  on  the  neighboring  hills,  and  cow-bells  were  tinkling 
at  the  pasture-bars,  when  we  drove  through  the  gateway  at  the 
end  of  the  green  lane.  Far  away  we  had  caught  sight  of  our 
grandfather  standing  in  his  door.  We  knew  him  by  his  gray 
hair  tossed  in  the  wind.  "  He's  an  old  dear,"  whispered  Benny; 
"just  a  little  cross  sometimes,  but  never  cross  to  me."  No,  he 
was  never  cross  to  little  Benny,  and  seldom  to  any  other  child. 
He  was  a  most  orderly  man,  and  was  apt  to  lose  patience  when 
children  upset  his  settled  ways.  He  never  was  known  to  scold 
Benny,  for  the  boy  was  his  namesake,  and  had  about  him,  he 
used  to  say,  the  look  of  those  who  die  young.  There  was  an 
unusual  trembling  of  the  aged  hand  which  patted  our  heads, 
and  a  very  tender  greeting  of  the  old  man  to  us.  Then  he 
held  us  at  arms'  length,  saying,  with  a  merry  twinkle  in  his 
eye,  "  So  you  young  rascals  have  come  to  haying,  have  you  ? 
Well,  I  must  say,  your  mother  needn't  have  rigged  you  out 
like  two  Arabs;  still,  I  think  you'll  do."  Happy  little  Benny 


106  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

thought  he  was  praising  our  looks,  and  told  me  shortly  that 
Arabs  must  be  some  grand  people. 

My  grandfather  was  a  keen-witted,  resolute,  handsome  man 
of  good  English  stock.  His  life  was  as  methodical  as  clock- 
work. His  thrift  wrested  a  competence  from  the  soil ;  but  his 
best  legacy  to  his  descendants  was  a  certain  inborn  freedom  of 
soul.  He  loved  every  inch  of  his  farm,  not  as  a  plougher  and 
plodder,  but  as  an  observer  and  thinker.  So  positive  and  self- 
asserting  was  this  high  type  of  his  manhood  that  his  only  son, 
when  exceptionally  well  educated  and  of  exalted  rank  in  his 
profession,  never  seemed  more  than  his  equal.  Having  lived 
past  his  fourscore  years,  he  ended  his  prosperous  and  reputable 
life  by  a  death  of  serene  dignity. 

He  was  called  stern  by  his  fellow-townsmen;  but  no  man  or 
woman  ever  questioned  his  integrity.  His  career,  considering 
the  possibilities  of  his  nature,  was  a  narrow  one,  but  of  the  best, 
so  far  as  it  went.  It  had  little  gilt  and  polish, — not  enough 
of  recreation, — but  such  as  it  was,  he  took  it  up  patiently  and 
faithfully,  and  got  out  of  it  whatever  of  good  it  had  in  it.  He 
did  with  all  his  might  whatever  he  had  to  do,  which  was  so 
much  that  it  crowded  his  life  to  the  verge  of  servitude.  He 
was  serious  and  earnest,  if  not  stern,  because  the  demands  of 
his  lot  left  little  room  for  lighter  moods,  so  that  a  higher  sense 
of  justice  and  humanity  was  born  of  this  half-tragic  element 
of  his  condition. 

The  children  of  such  fathers  were  well-trained  children.  The 
parent's  will  was  law  with  them,  and  the  law  of  the  parent  was 


THE   VISIT.  107 

the  word  of  God.  These  unpetted  yet  deeply -loved  sons  and 
daughters  were  truthful  and  honest.  They  were  respecters  of 
age,  keepers  of  the  Sabbath,  and  clean  in  all  their  ways,  because 
their  home  tuition  had  been  founded  upon  the  highest  principles 
of  religion  and  morality.  Tears  and  tender  words  did  not  come 
easily  to  such  hard  workers  and  simple  livers.  They  had  an 
element  of  heroic  resistance  to  what  they  considered  weakness, 
and  a  Spartan  estimation  of  all  tokens  of  it.  Mothers  could 
lay  out  their  dead  children  for  burial,  and  fathers  could  look 
upon  them  with  tearless  eyes.  They  would  put  them  in  graves 
close  to  their  homes,  and  then  go  back  to  their  old  grooves, 
giving  little  outward  sign.  But  the  hurt  was  there,  deep  and 
for  all  time.  These  massive  old  heroes,  these  truthful,  earnest 
wrestlers  for  duty,  held  their  reticence  as  a  comely  instinct, — 
a  sacred  inner  life. 

The  Christian  New  Englander  of  forty  years  ago  was  most 
reverent.  His  children  were  God's  trust  to  him;  as  such  he 
trained  them,  and  as  such  he  gave  them  up.  If  he  unwisely 
crucified  the  tastes  and  desires  of  his  sons  and  daughters,  it  was 
because  of  his  own  blind  zeal  and  an  overstraining  of  Bible 
precepts.  If  any  of  them,  in  morality,  fell  short  of  the  home 
standard,  he  was  more  smitten  by  it  than  he  would  have  been 
by  their  death. 

After  a  supper  of  bread  and  milk,  Benny  and  I  were  sent 
to  bed,  with  orders  to  be  up  bright  and  early  for  the  haying. 
The  sun  was  already  making  great  red  streaks  across  the 
checked  hangings  in  the  east  chamber  when  Benny's  tap  at 


108  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

my  door,  and  the  patter  of  his  little  feet  across  the  sanded 
floor,  startled  me  from  an  uneasy  slumber.  I  had  been  dream- 
ing of  the  enclosure  in  the  mowing-field.  I  thought  we  were 
gathering  buttercups  on  Olly's  grave,  when  a  great  pit  suddenly 
yawned,  and  Benny  fell  into  it.  "  Quick,  we  are  almost  ready," 
he  shouted,  and  then  ran  away,  "  to  help  fix  off,"  he  said.  He 
had  pumped  a  basin  of  fresh  water,  which,  with  a  clean  towel, 
awaited  me  on  the  wooden  bench  at  the  back-door.  I  scrubbed 
my  face  and  hands  with  zest  in  that  tin  basin,  and  would  be 
willing  to-day  to  taste,  in  the  same  homely  way,  the  pleasant 
abandon  of  that  summer  morning,  if  with  it  would  come  back 
the  scents  and  voices,  the  glowing  light,  and  the  simple  occu- 
pations of  its  long-past,  happy  day. 

We  ate  no  breakfast,  Benny  and  I,  we  were  too  happy  for 
that ;  besides,  a  huge  basket  under  Jonathan's  arm  was,  Hannah 
whispered,  "brimful  of  goodies."  The  leathern-handled  keg 
puzzled  us;  but  Benny  was  a  philosopher,  and,  pointing  to  the 
flies  swarming  about  its  spigot,  confidently  declared  that  it  held 
some  savory  drink. 

The  smallest  rakes  were  laid  aside  for  the  new  hands,  as  our 
grandfather  jocosely  called  us,  and  we  were  left  to  follow  after- 
the  loads.  Our  little  fists  grew  red  and  speckled;  but  Benny 
said  they  would  soon  be  tough  like  Jonathan's,  and  the  fun  of 
treading  down  the  sweet  hay  and  jolting  over  the  sill  of  the 
barn  more  than  made  up  for  all  our  ills.  "  Our  new  hands 
ain't  so  green  after  all,"  remarked  spruce  David  to  his  fellow- 
mower.  "  Tell  better  arter  the  new's  off,"  was  Jonathan's  bluff 


THE    VISIT. 


109 


reply.      "  The    old    clown !"    whispered   Benny.      "  How   clever 
David  is  !"  said  I. 

By  and  by,  when  the  sun  had  gotten  into  the  zenith,  we  began 
to  feel  hot  and  tired,  and  cast  longing  glances  towards  the  shady 


rock  by  the  spring,  behind  which  were  the  keg  and  bundle. 
My  grandfather,  seeing  us  lag,  took  pity  upon  us,  and  sent  us 
there  to  rest.  We  ate  our  share  of  the  lunch,  and  took  long 
draughts  of  sweetened  water  from  the  keg.  Benny  thought 
there  was  too  much  ginger  in  it,  but  drank  freely.  Alas !  for 
the  struggling  fly  which,  sticking  fast  upon  Benny's  nose,  daubed 
over  with  molasses,  made  us  forget  to  put  back  the  spigot. 

15 


110  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

When  the  thirsty  mowers  came  round  the  rock  the  keg  was 
empty. 

"  So  much  for  babies  in  haying-time,"  growled  Jonathan.  My 
grandfather  looked  severe,  and  told  us  to  "  start  for  the  house." 
So  we  did,  David  slipping  round  the  rock  to  say  to  us  that  it 
was  no  matter,  for  he  would  fill  the  keg  again. 

We  idled  the  afternoon  sadly  away  in  the  old  farm-house. 
True  to  human  nature,  we  little  ones  turned  against  each  other. 
"  You  are  black  as  a  crow,"  said  Benny.  "  And  you,"  retorted 
I,  "are  as  speckled  as  an  adder."  "All  from  this  hateful  hay- 
ing," Benny  went  on.  Then,  common  grief  making  common 
cause,  we  came  together  again ;  and,  pledging  everlasting  absence 
from  the  haying  field,  we  dwelt  in  love  and  harmony  until  bed- 
time. Somehow  my  tired  little  body  would  not  rest  that  night. 
I  had  another  frightful  dream  about  a  deep  pit  and  little  Benny. 
I  kept  waking  up;  but  the  bed-curtains  looked  so  black,  and 
the  dimly-seen  windows  so  ghostly,  that  I  shut  my  eyes  and 
lay  trembling  with  fear  half  the  night.  It  was  very  late  the 
next  morning  when  I  was  awakened  by  the  merry  haymakers 
under  my  window,  on  their  way  to  the  mowing-field.  Above 
every  other  voice  rang  out  Benny's,  glad  and  care  free. 

After  that  the  haying-time  passed  away  quickly  and  merrily. 
Best  of  holidays  to  me ;  from  which  have  come  some  of  the 
brightest  pictures  and  purest  sentiments  of  my  life.  Pay-day 
came.  Jonathan  and  David  received  their  well-earned  wages; 
scores  of  transient  helpers  had  come  and  gone;  Benny  and  I 
each  clasped  in  our  brown  hands  four  bright  silver  dollars. 


THE    VISIT. 


Ill 


The  big  gate  opened  to  let  out  the  market- wagon,  with  two 
joyous-hearted  children.  Their  clothes  were  much  the  worse 
for  wear,  and  they  looked  even  queerer  than  they  did  when  they 
came.  They  turned  tenderly  back  to  the  white-haired  old  man, 
who  watched  them  from  the  porch-door.  "I'll  come  again  very 
soon,"  called  Benny.  He  did  come,  and  the  big  gate  opened 
wide  to  let  him  in. 


HE  summer  harvest  was  past,  but 
not  the  remembrance  of  it.  Benny  and  I 
were  ever  counting  the  months,  and  then  the 
weeks,  before  another  haying.  We  spent  our 
holidays  in  the  making  of  miniature  rakes,  and 
were  garrulous  the  whole  winter  with  our  simple 
memories.  No  story-book  could  give  us  pleas- 
ure like  going  over  the  past  summer's  homely  life.  We  talked 
much  of  little  things :  of  the  maimed  lamb  that  limped  at  our 
call  to  his  evening  meal;  the  speckled  trout  in  the  deep  old 
well ;  the  play  rock ;  the  herds ;  the  apple-trees  ;  and  much,  very 
much,  of  the  dear,  trembling  old  man,  who  never  seemed  old 
to  us,  over  whom  the  unreasoning  love  of  childhood  cast  the 
glamour  of  immortal  youth. 

There  was  to  be  a  jubilee,   in   anticipation   of  which   I  had 

exchanged  my  grandfather's   dollars   for  bright  ribbons,   whilst 

Benny's  had  gone  into  the  price  of  a  pair  of  fine  gaiters.     The 

long-wished-for   morning   came.      Benny's   little  jacket,    with   a 

112 


•  LITTLE  BENNY.  113 

white  collar  pinned  to  its  neck,  hung  from  a  nail  in  the  wall; 
his  new  gaiters  stood  upon  the  mantel.  Benny  could  not  wear 
them  then.  I  entered  into  the  sports  of  that  day  with  all  the 
buoyancy  of  childhood;  and  though  I  heard  Benny's  moans  as 
I  passed  the  half-opened  door,  I  did  not  think  at  evening  to 
bid  him  good-night  or  give  him  his  wonted  kiss.  Giddy  girl! 
That  same  sick  Benny  was  the  gay  companion  of  haying-time. 
.  Ever  thus  selfish  is  joy.  What  sympathy  can  gladness  have 
with  sorrow  ?  If  death  has  never  entered  your  own  household, 
you  can  carry  little  consolation  to  the  mourner, — your  words 
will  be  as  sounding  brass  and  tinkling  cymbals.  Days  passed 
away ;  long,  weary  days.  The  gaiters  still  kept  their  place 
on  the  mantel;  the  white  collar  had  become  yellow  with  smoke 
and  dust,  but  still  it  stayed.  Benny  no  longer  asked  about  the 
jubilee,  and  I  shrank  from  his  darkened  room.  How  anxiously 
I  watched  the  doctor's  face  as  he  softly  emerged  from  the  sick- 
chamber  !  How  my  little  heart  beat  if  ever  its  wonted  benignant 
smile  returned ! 

One  morning  (Benny  had  been  ill  two  weeks)  I  was  awakened 
by  the  rumbling  of  a  vehicle.  There  was  no  mistaking  the 
sound;  it  was  the  old  market-wagon.  In  a  few  minutes  I  was 
by  my  grandfather's  side.  There  was  no  tremulous  grasp  of 
the  hand,  no  gentle  greeting,  no  fond  pat  on  the  head.  His 
thoughts  were  with  Benny,  his  namesake. 

"  Tread  softly,"  whispered  the  doctor,  as  I  led  my  grandfather 
to  the  side  of  the  sick-bed.  He  leaned  heavily  on  his  staff, 
and  a  tear  trickled  down  his  furrowed  cheek. 


114 


NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 


11  Benny  will  not  help  us  hay  another  year,"  said  the  old  man 
to  me,  in  broken  tones.     How  that  death-knell  fell  on  my  soul ! 


Was  Benny,  the  good,  the  beautiful  Benny,  to  die  and  be  buried 
in  the  cold,  damp  earth !  It  could  not  be ;  and  yet,  as  I  looked 
at  him  the  terrible  conviction  forced  itself  upon  me.  His  little 


LITTLE  BENNY.  115 

brown  hands  had  become  thin  and  white,  his  cheeks  sunken. 
He  opened  his  eyes. 

"  Benny,  do  you  know  me  ?"  asked  grandfather,  fondly. 

He  murmured  incoherently  something  about  haying-time,  the 
big  rock,  and  the  mowing-field.  Again  my  grandfather  dropped 
a  tear.  It  was  more  than  my  childish  heart  could  bear.  I  ran 
to  my  chamber,  and  throwing  myself  upon  the  bed  yielded  to 
the  first  sharp  agony  of  life.  Oh,  it  is  a  fearful  thing  to  pass 
for  the  first  time  through  the  gates  of  sorrow ! 

It  was  dark,  very  dark,  when  I  was  awakened  by  a  light  tap 
upon  my  shoulder.  I  knew  the  touch ;  it  was  my  grandfather's 
hand.  I  asked  no  questions,  but  followed  him  instinctively  to 
the  sick-room.  I  knew  that  Benny,  my  loved  Benny,  was  dying. 

There  was  no  shrinking  from  the  mysterious  threshold.  In 
the  agony  of  that  moment  I  could  not  cry,  but  stood  by  the  side 
of  the  dear  boy  as  cold,  calm,  and  still  almost  as  himself.  There 
was  no  look  of  recognition,  no  word  from  the  palsied  tongue. 
One  gasp,  one  quiver  of  the  thin  lip,  and  the  fragile  chord  which 
bound  his  pure  soul  to  earth  was  broken, — there  was  no  longer 
in  that  household  a  little  Benny.  It  was  a  most  solemn  death- 
room.  A  mother  wept  for  her  lost  one,  and  refused  to  be  com- 
forted ;  a  father  was  bowed  in  agony  for  the  child  of  his  heart ; 
and,  more  touching  still,  the  silvered  locks  of  decrepit  age 
mingled  with  the  golden  curls  of  lifeless  childhood. 

Thus  it  is — the  child  sports  a  brief  hour;  manhood  leagues 
with  mammon  a  few  short  years;  and  only  here  and  there  is 
given  a  long  life. 


116  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

Rummaging  not  long  since  amongst  some  old  letters,  I  came 
upon  one  directed  in  faded  ink  to  my  grandfather.  It  could 
hardly  be  deciphered,  so  worn  and  discolored  was  it  by  time. 
It  was  a  summons  to  Benny's  bedside.  At  the  bottom  of  the 
page,  in  an  old  man's  tremulous  hand,  was  this  postscript:  "Benny 
died  of  brain  fever  the  next  day,  at  ten  of  the  clock  P.M.  He 
was  my  best  beloved  grandchild." 

For  weeks  I  mourned  for  my  lost  playmate.  His  chair  kept 
its  place  in  the  corner ;  the  miniature  rakes  were  fondly  cher- 
ished ;  the  collar  was  still  unpinned.  By  chance  one  day  the 
chair  was  moved ;  anon  the  rusty  pin  was  drawn  from  the 
jacket,  and  one  by  one  the  little  rakes  disappeared.  The  next 
haying-time  found  me  almost  as  blithe  and  gay  as  ever.  Thus 
evanescent  are  the  griefs  of  early  childhood. 

Little  Benny  was  buried  on  the  old  farm.  It  was  my 
grandfather's  wish  that  he  should  be.  People  came  from 
far  and  near  to  his  funeral.  They  made  a  quaint  throng, 
— hard-faced  men  and  women,  serious  and  sympathetic,  and 
young  men  and  maidens,  with  a  curious  awe  at  this,  in  the 
country,  unusual  presentment  of  the  sublime  beauty  of  a  dead 
child.  All  along  the  farm-yard  fence,  as  far  as  to  the  farther 
gate,  stood  the  homely  teams  of  these  people,  who  had  left 
their  tasks  to  show  their  respect  and  sympathy  for  their 
neighbor.  This  congregating  of  wagons  about  a  country  house 
was  a  sure  token  of  woe,  more  significant  and  touching  than 
any  bands  of  crape;  so  also  was  the  decorous  going  in  and 
out  of  the  silent  throng.  Seen  from  a  distance,  they  made  a 


LITTLE  BENNY. 


IV 


blossoms 


solemn  pageant  contrasted 
with   the   usual   quiet   of   a 
country  home. 

Benny  lay  in  his  coffin  between  the 
windows  of  the  "fore-room," — that    *r 
room  which  was  never  used  save  for  some 
memorial  purpose.    Its  doors  and  windows 
were  flung  wide  open  now,  and  the  bright 
sunshine  streamed  athwart  the  child's  face  and 
kindled  it   into   a   marvellous   life   likeness. 
He  had  few  flowers  about  him ;  but  from  the   - 
garden  and        the  fields  outside  came  the  scent  of 
he  had  loved,  and  sweet-smelling 
things  were  clasped  in  the  hands 
of  the  women.      He  seemed   not 
to  be  dead,  but  asleep ;  and  most 
tenderly  did  nature  caress  this 
clay  image  of  her 
child-lover  with  her 
best  summer  gifts.    The 
mourners,  with  their  dearest 
friends,  sat  about  the  .boy, 
thus  holding  fast  to  him 
to  the  last.     The  preacher 
stood  upon  the  threshold  of 

the  fore  room,  talking  mostly  to  them,  and  praying 
for  them  with  a  painful  personality.     He  did  not,  however, 

16 


forget 


118  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

the  application  of  his  text  and  the  lesson  of  the  day  to  the  people 
in  the  other  rooms.  His  voice  pervaded  every  corner  of  the  house, 
and  the  breeze  caught  it  up  and  carried  it  to  the  traveller  on 
the  highway, — a  solemn  sound.  When  he  had  finished  Farmer 
Brown,  in  his  homely  way,  but  with  a  voice  tender  with  sorrow, 
said,  "  The  mourners  can  now  look  at  the  child." 

Did  you  ever  respond  to  such  a  call  ?  What  measure  is  there 
to  the  agony  of  this  last  silent  interview  with  the  unresponsive 
dead ;  this  unanswered  greeting  of  one  who,  for  time,  is  lost  in 
the  most  irrevocable  sense;  this  unheeded  letting-out  of  the 
affections  to  what  is  already  going  back  to  dust? 

Next  to  the  mourners,  the  neighbors  were  invited  to  take  a 
last  look  at  the  departed.  Keenly,  as  if  it  were  but  yesterday, 
do  I  remember  the  sweet  speech  of  this  unpolished  man;  the 
instinctive  shrinking  of  this  tender-hearted  rustic  from  thrusting 
a  cruel  fact  upon  those  whom  it  most  concerned.  The  relatives 
were  asked  to  look  upon  their  child  as  upon  one  who  slept; 
the  neighbors,  for  the  last  time,  upon  the  dead.  They  all — men, 
women,  and  children — took  their  turn  over  the  little  coffin.  They 
were  greatly  moved,  even  the  hardest  featured  of  them.  Men 
drew  their  horny  hands  over  their  eyes,  and  women  sobbed  aloud 
over  this  child,  whom  many  of  them  had  never  seen  while  living, 
but  who,  dead,  wrought  from  their  suppressed  natures  this  miracle 
of  emotion. 

He  lay  there,  his  golden  curls  and  long  lashes  sun-gilded,  and 
clinging  to  his  marble  image  with  strange  brightness.  He  was 
to  them  a  new  and  beautiful  revelation.  He  was  as  unlike  their 


LITTLE  BENNY.  119 

own  children  as  if  he  had  belonged  to  another  race.  Death  could 
not  chisel  the  best  of  their  own  into  his  likeness.  They  saw, 
but  could  not  comprehend,  the  rare  quality  of  this  child,  and  so 
they  looked  upon  him  and  wept  in  wonder.  He  was  too  beautiful, 
they  said,  to  be  put  out  of  sight ;  and  nature  seemed  to  rebuke 
them  while  she  smiled  upon  all  the  stages  of  this  his  last  and 
little  journey.  The  sun  sank  towards  the  west,  and  from  beyond 
the  woodland  and  pasture  it  streamed  across  the  open  grave, 
and  filled  the  thing  itself  with  a  waiting  glory.  The  child  was 
covered  and  carried  across  the  green  field,  and  let  down  into  it ; 
and  in  a  little  while  all  there  was  left  of  the  sad  pageant  of  that 
summer's  day  was  a  small  brown  mound  in  sight  of  the  west 
room  window. 

It  seems  to  me,  as  I  look  back,  a  sweet  burial  without  dread, 
that  carrying  out  of  the  lovely  child  from  the  old  farm-house, 
amidst  sunshine  and  tender  mourning,  and  laying  him  down  in 
the  green  field  which  he  had  made  jocund  the  summer  before 
with  his  delight.  We  talked  of  this  boy  as  having  been  cut 
off,  but  after  all  his  little  life  had  been  full  and  complete  and 
well  rounded ;  and  when  his  short  journey  had  come  to  an  end, 
the  sunshine  which  he  had  brought  with  him  flooded  and  followed 
him.  His  burial  on  it  glorified  the  farm.  He  was  always  there, 
not  as  under  the  mound  with  its  lettered  stone,  but  as  a  true  little 
Benny,  who,  unresponsive  to  touch  or  speech,  did  yet  roam  about 
the  place.  He  has  never  grown  old,  but  has  grown  grand  with 
years.  The  capacity  of  this  child  has  been  perfected  by  loving 
memory  to  the  measure  of  the  whole  universe.  He  roams  at 


120 


NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 


large.  I  shall  never  know  him  here  again,  by  sight  or  speech  or 
touch,  but  one  day  we  shall,  I  trust,  know  each  other,  not  as  we 
were,  but  as  we  are  to  be. 

Thus  the  watchers  and  waiters,  whose  going  away  from  us 
tore  our  hearts,  are  to  take  the  sting  of  death  from  us.  They 
compelled  us  to  shut  them  out  of  our  earthly  homes  that  they 
might  welcome  us  into  a  heavenly.  Dear  children,  you  of  earlier 
and  you  of  later  days,  how  will  the  mystery  of  your  brief  lives 
be  unravelled  when  you  shall  come  down  resplendent  to  the  shore 
of  the  shining  river,  that  you  may  help  over  the  old.  the  infirm, 
and  the  weary,  who  stayed  behind  and  mourned  for  you ! 


rY  grandfather's  burial-place  was 
within  a  stone's  throw  of  the 
"  west  room  windows.  To  one 
coming  from  north  or  south, 
east  or  west,  it  was  as  conspicuous 
as  the  house  itself.  Its  .tablets  were  the  ghosts  of  my  childhood. 
They  gave  me  many  terrified  waking  hours,  taking  shape  and 
motion  to  me  as  I  stared  at  them  from  my  chamber  window. 
These  family  graveyards  were  a  peculiar  feature  of  the  country. 
They  gave  pathos  to  a  landscape,  recording  with  tragic  fidelity 
the  sorrows  and  mortality  of  its  inhabitants.  My  grandfather 
loved  his  burial-place.  It  was  in  the  way  of  a  straight  path 
to  the  orchard  and  the  mowing  field,  but  he  seemed  glad  to  be 
turned  aside  by  it.  No  spot,  he  said,  was  too  good  for  little 
Benny.  He  used  to  sit  hour  after  hour  at  the  window  which 
overlooked  it,  the  wind  softly  lifting  his  silvery  hair,  while  he 
silently  contemplated  this  smallest,  but  most  precious,  of  all  his 


122 


NEW  ENGLAND   BYGONES. 


fields.  What  was  he  thinking  about?  what  memories  touched 
him?  what  certainties  awed  him?  Watching  with  the  keen 
eye  of  childhood  I  got  no  sign,  for  the  spiritual  life  of  this 
reticent  old  man  was  chary  of  utterance.  He  knew  that  in  this 
bed  he  should  some  day  be  laid  at  rest ;  and  the  more  trembling 

his  old  limbs  grew,  the 
nearer  his  feet  approached 
the  borders  of  the  silent 
land,  the  more  he  used  to 
sit  and  gaze 


at  his  graves, 


and   ponder,    without   doubt, 
upon  the  mysteries  of  the  hereafter. 

These  little  fields  were  family  heirlooms. 
No  one  could  be  so  pinched  by  poverty, 

or  so  depraved  in  sentiment,  as  willingly  to  sell  them.  When 
farms  changed  owners,  these  were  carefully  exempted  and  fenced 
in.  Occasionally  circumstance  so  far  removed,  or  Providence 
so  blotted  out,  a  posterity,  that  a  grave  became  ownerless. 


THE  BURIAL-PLACE.  123 

Even  then  humanity  kept  it  from  hard  usage.  No  question 
of  utility  could  uproot  from  the  sod  the  claim  upon  it  of  its 
first  occupants.  It  was  kept  by  their  memory  as  firmly  as 
when  they  held  in  living  hands  its  written  title-deeds.  There 
comes  especially  to  mind  such  a  burial-place.  It  was  upon  a 
hillock  in  the  corner  of  a  field,  at  the  end  of  a  green  lane :  a 
lovely  spot  overlooking  a  wide  stretch  of  country.  A  sweet 
apple-tree,  always  in  summer  full  of  fruit,  overhung  it.  I  see 
the  uneven  mound  now,  matted  with  grass,  strewn  with  golden 
apples,  and  only  telling  by  tradition  of  the  presence  of  the  dead. 
I  remember  how  stealthily  children  climbed  up  the  wall  and 
snatched  at  overhanging  boughs.  They  were  shy  of  the  wind- 
falls on  the  other  side,  for  these  lonely  graves  were  to  fields 
what  ghosts  are  to  haunted  chambers. 

My  grandfather's  old  farm-house,  with  its  lands,  may  go  to 
strangers;  but  the  little  field,  first  made  precious  to  me  by 
Benny's  burial,  shall  remain  undesecrated.  Under  every  change 
of  life  I  know  that  it  will  be  to  me  and  my  children  a  hallowed 
possession.  Its  mounds,  whose  tenants  have  gone  back  to  the 
dust  from  whence  they  came,  have  given  place  to  hollows  full 
of  rank  grass  and  yarrow.  Its  slabs  of  perishable  slate  are 
seamed  and  fretted  by  the  wear  and  tear  of  many  years.  Its 
tumbled  wall  is  covered  with  raspberry-vines  and  sumachs,  and 
a  maple-tree  has  grown  monumental  with  the  years  which  have 
eaten  away  the  inscriptions  from  the  stones  beneath  it.  Not 
long  since  I  visited  the  spot.  I  plucked  a  blossom  from  a  straw- 
berry-vine which  had  thrown  its  tendrils  into  an  old  grave,  and 


124  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

looked  upon  the  uneven  earth  about  me.  Benny's  little  stone 
reproached  me  with  its  forty  odd  years  of  wear.  I  grew  sorrow- 
ful. Then  from  the  luxuriant  outgrowth  around  me  came  the 
assurance  of  hope  in  death;  every  crevice  of  the  crumbling 
stones  was  teeming  with  vegetation.  Growth  had  been  born 
of  decay;  from  death  had  sprung  beautiful  life.  The  sod  itself 
had  been  ripened  by  giving  back  to  it  its  rightful  dust.  Why 
then  should  one  mourn  when  a  spirit,  let  loose  from  its  bonds, 
exchanges  its  kinship  with  sin  and  sorrow  and  pain  for  a  glorious 
immortality  ? 

"  Sacred  to  the  memory  of  the  dead !"  This  is  the  most 
common  legend,  and  also  the  truest  and  best.  There  is  no  being 
so  mean  that  he  may  not  claim  for  himself  this  epitaph.  The 
grave  is  common  ground.  So  far  as  this  world  goes,  it  brings 
all  to  the  same  level.  The  beggar  is  as  sure  of  his  morsel  of 
earth  as  the  prince  is  of  his  tomb.  The  rankness  of  the  one 
is  as  eloquent  as  the  pomp  of  the  other.  The  prince  was  clothed 
in  purple  and  fine  linen,  and  the  damp  mould  clasped  him ;  the 
beggar  was  clad  in  rags,  and  the  busy  grass  wove  for  him  a 
rentless  covering. 

The  world  is  full  of  unknown  graves,  of  whose  tenants  she 
tells  no  stories :  the  unmarked  and  uncared-for  graves  of  people 
stranded  by  accident  or  circumstance;  of  slaughtered  soldiers; 
of  pioneers  in  new  countries ;  of  martyrs  to  liberty ;  of  travellers 
in  far  lands.  The  sea  is  continually  dragging  into  its  hungry 
maw  human  life,  which  it  absorbs  and  hides  as  relentlessly  as  it 
washes  away  the  sands  of  its  shore.  There  is  an  unutterable 


THE  BURIAL-PLACE.  125 

pathos  in  nameless  graves.  I  have  walked  through  acres  strewn 
thick  with  soldiers'  bones,  the  harvest  of  great  battles.  No  in- 
scription has  touched  me  like  the  simple  "  unknown"  which 
breaks  the  monotony  of  their  epitaphs.  It  tells  that  there  lies 
a  man,  no  matter  how  long  and  well  he  has  fought  for  his 
country,  who  was  so  undowered  by  fortune,  so  smitten  by  cir- 
cumstance, that  even  his  name  has  been  lost !  Yet  no  grave 
can  be  naked  and  forsaken,  for  trees  and  shrubs  and  grasses 
and  flowers  will  grow  on  it,  and  over  it  spans  the  grand  arch 
of  heaven. 

In  the  pioneer  days  of  New  England  the  churchyard  was  a 
favorite  burial-place.  .  The  early  settlers,  beset  by  Indians,  gen- 
erally planted  their  meeting-houses  upon  hill-tops  which  over- 
looked the  wooded  country.  They  were  thus  less  easily  surprised, 
and  better  defended  in  case  of  danger.  These  meeting-houses 
had  watch-towers ;  were  strong  with  oaken  beams  and  barricades ; 
and  on  Sunday  were  filled  with  armed  worshippers.  To  hold 
out  unsleeping  through  long  services  was  the  chief  effort  of 
many  of  the  overworked  hearers.  But  the  men,  whose  eyes 
were  wide  open,  whose  ears  were  quick  to  hear,  whose  thoughts 
were  clear,  condensed,  their  post  was  in  the  towers.  Not  an 
unseen  shadow  passed  over  the  woodland ;  not  an  unheard  twig 
broke  in  it ;  scarcely  the  rustle  of  a  leaf  escaped  them.  Death, 
or  worse,  might  be  the  price  of  one  minute  of  laggard  service. 
What  a  grand  picture  one  of  these  heroic  old  watchmen  wou^i 
make,  perched,  defiant  and  faithful,  on  one  of  those  bygone 
church-towers ;  standing  there  as  much  a  warrior  against  the 

17 


126  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

wildness  of  nature  as  the  savageness  of  man.  Gerome  has  painted 
a  Mussulman  calling  to  prayers  from  the  minaret  of  a  mosque. 
The  turbaned  old  Turk,  leaning  from  his  lofty  perch,  gives  a 
weird  beauty  to  this  cold,  heathen  picture.  Our  Christian  watch- 
man, lifted  over  the  desolateness  of  the  forest  and  the  wiles  of 
the  savage,  could  not  help  standing  out  from  such  a  foreground 
with  a  clear-cut  and  sublime  distinctness. 

It  is  curious  to  trace  out  on  the  highest  point  of  some  prom- 
inent New  England  landscape  the  almost  hidden  outlines  of  one 
of  these  Christian  strongholds,  invisible  to  the  passer-by,  but 
positive  and  well-defined  to  the  antiquary.  I  have  seen'  the 
latter  coax  out  from  a  grass-grown  summit  the  underlying  sods 
of  an  old  structure.  He  paced  it  for  me,  and  told  me  where  were 
its  pulpit,  its  door,  and  its  towers.  He  rebuilt  for  me '  this  quaint 
house  into  the  tamed  landscape.  One  cannot  at  this  day  well 
appreciate  the  heroism  of  that  armed  devotion.  It  is  easier  to 
imagine  how  dazed  one  of  the  old  watchmen  would  be  to  find 
himself  suddenly  resurrected  upon  his  tower,  with  no  foe  to  fight 
against. 

When  the  Indians  had  passed  away  the  meeting-houses  were 
still,  for  convenience,  centrally  located ;  and,  being  used  by  a 
whole  township,  were  often  far  away  from  any  habitation.  Later, 
however,  the  isolated  meeting-house,  with  its  "  God's  acre,"  was 
deserted.  Population  increased,  villages  sprang  up,  and  new 
places  of  worship  were  built  to  meet  the  growing  means  and 
needs  of  the  people.  The  old  burial-grounds  began  to  seem 
too  far  away  and  too  lonely  for  the  beloved  dead.  Village  people 


THE  BURIAL-PLACE. 


chose  to  lay  them  in  some 
spot  near  by,  which  was 
fenced  carefully  out  and  adorned 
with  trees  and  shrubs.  At  the  same 
^.  time  the  thrifty  farmer  set  aside  a  spot 
in  some  field,  apt  to  be  the  most  conspicuous 
point  on  his  farm. 
Meanwhile  the  deserted  plat,  sown  thick  with  the 
bones  of  Christian  pioneers,  was  taken  up  and  cared  for  by  nature. 
Tradition  clung  to  it,  ghosts  haunted  it,  vegetation  ran  riot  over 
it,  its  walls  tumbled,  its  stones  were  zigzag,  it  was  ragged  and 
uneven  and  wild,  but  beautiful.  It  lay  upon  the  landscape  a 
legend  of  the  past,  whether  you  read  it  in  its  rude  inscriptions 


128  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

or  in  the  gray  desolateness  of  its  aspect.  It  came  to  be  known 
as  "  the  old  graveyard/' — something  incorporated  into  the  history 
and  atmosphere  of  the  place;  a  solemn  suburb,  in  the  sentiment 
of  which  every  villager  had  an  inherited  or  acquired  possession. 
A  mile  away  from  a  New  England  -village,  on  the  edge  of  a 
primeval  forest,  by  the  side  of  a  deserted  highway,  have  lain 
undisturbed  for  years  the  bones  of  its  patriarchs.  Here  was 
once  a  meeting-house,  but  so  long  ago  that  nothing  but  tradition 
tells  of  its  site.  This  meeting-house  doubtless  had  its  towers 
and  its  watchers ;  but  the  thing  itself,  and  the  actors  in  it,  have 
literally  gone  back  to  dust.  Only  the  undying  beauty  of  the 
landscape  remains,  which  embodies  in  it  the  ancient  burial-place. 
This  is  almost  surrounded  by  a  pine  forest,  and  is  only  separated 
by  the  thread  of  a  grass-grown  path  from  a  beautiful  lake.  It 
is  one  of  the  sweetest  spots  I  ever  knew ;  and  if  a  patch  of  earth 
can  be  sacred  to  the  memory  of  the  dead,  this  is  made  so  by 
the  dedication  of  munificent  nature.  The  site  of  it,  with  that 
of  the  meeting-house,  contrary  to  custom  in  troublous  times, 
lies  low.  The  shimmering  little  pond  must  have  been  delightful 
to  the  pioneers  of  the  unbroken  wilderness.  Its  shores  can  be 
but  little  changed  from  what  they  were  in  the  days  of  the  old 
meeting-house,  for  the  pine-trees  of  its  encircling  forest  seem 
as  ancient  as  time  itself.  Were  the  pines,  without  undergrowth, 
and  the  pond  and  the  highways  good  for  strategic  purposes,  or 
were  the  builders  of  this  ancient  house  beguiled  by  the  exceeding 
beauty  of  the  landscape  ?  Three  Indians,  after  a  hard  struggle, 
were  once  killed  upon  this  pond,  and  the  meeting-house  outlived 


THE  BURIAL-PLACE.  129 

their  race;  so  I  suppose  the  old  savage  drama  was  played  out 
in  it.  Long  sermons  were  preached ;  guns  were  stacked  by  its 
doorway;  and  up  in  its  towers  stood  men,  whose  eyes  never 
turned  away  from  the  road,  the  pond,  and  the  pines.  Of  all 
the  tragic  and  historic  life  of  the  spot,  we  have  left  only  this 
forsaken  burial-place. 

Now  and  then  a  traveller,  drawn  by  the  shimmering  of  the 
little  pond  through  the  trees,  follows  the  by-road  which  leads 
to  it.  He  stoops  down,  pulls  apart  tangled  weeds  and  grass,  and 
tries  to  spell  out  some  of  its  time-worn  inscriptions.  He  finds 
the  deeply-cut  name  of  the  last  pastor  of  the  church,  and  of 
scores  of  other  ancient  and  godly  men.  What  he  fails  to  decipher 
are  manifold  texts  of  scripture  and  verses  of  old  hymns,  quaintly 
spelled  and  lettered.  This  now  illegible  stonescript  was  once 
tenderly  illustrative  of  the  virtues  of  the  underlying  dead.  I 
recall,  as  if  it  were  but  yesterday,  the  last  burial  in  that  old 
churchyard;  the  rude  bier;  the  procession  of  villagers  following 
after  the  mourners ;  the  sunshine  and  the  silence  of  the  day. 
The  train  wound  slowly  through  the  forest,  by  the  pond,  into 
the  churchyard.  There  was  no  rattling  of  hearse  and  coaches; 
no  crowd  of  gazers  in  holiday  attire.  It  was  a  carrying  of  the 
dead  with  simple,  solemn  ceremony  to  the  grave.  The  bier  was 
set  down;  the  villagers  stood  around  it;  and  then  the  minister, 
with  bare  head,  said,  reverently,  "  Let  us  pray."  His  voice  went 
through  the  old  wood,  across  the  pond,  and  seemed  to  fill  all 
space. 

I  know  of  no  service  more  beautiful  and  impressive  than  a 


130  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

village  funeral  of  olden  times.  I  have  been  to  many  such,  and 
each  stands  out  in  memory  like  a  painting.  The  bereavement 
of  one  villager  was  the  grief  of  every  other.  Silence  and  sorrow 
fell  over  them  all.  The  presence  of  the  dead  hallowed  a  house. 
Hard-working  women  crowded  in,  and  grew  gentle  and  beautiful 
with  sympathy.  Bronzed  men,  with  hands  calloused  by  toil, 
lifted  and  folded  the  rusty  pall  as  lightly  as  if  it  had  been  of 
gossamer.  The  preacher,  standing  upon  the  threshold  of  the 
"  best  room/'  filled  the  house  with  his  simple  words;  hymns  were 
sung  reverently  by  untrained  voices ;  relatives  took  a  last  look 
of  their  dead ;  neighbors  followed  after  them ;  the  lid  was  ham- 
mered down  with  that  mournful  stroke  once  heard. never  for- 
gotten ;  the  coarse-handed,  warm-hearted  men  lifted  the  coffin 
as  tenderly  as  they  had  handled  the  pall,  and  carried  it  outside 
where  the  bier  waited  to  receive  it.  The  house  was  hushed  as 
it  passed  out,  and  the  procession,  called  out  by  some  neighbor, 
noiselessly  formed  behind  it. 

What  a  terrible  passing  out  that  is, — the  going  forth  of  a 
dead  body  never  to  return !  Hope  goes  forth  with  the  most 
forlorn  departure  of  a  living  friend.  Sickness,  distance,  time, 
all  leave  room  for  desire  and  expectation ;  death  never.  We 
cannot  know  our  loss  until  our  dead  have  left  us.  The  presence 
of  the  lifeless  body  gives  us  a  measure  of  consolation.  It  awes 
us  by  the  symmetry  of  its  marble  beauty.  The  utter  peace 
and  silence  which  possess  it  steal  also  into  us,  and  we  sit  com- 
forted in  the  presence  of  our  dead.  But  oh !  who  can  measure 
the  utter  agony  of  that  hour  when  they  go  from  us  for  all  time, 


THE  BURIAL-PLACE.  131 

borne  out  unresisting,  to  be  forevermore  things  of  the  past  ? 
If  we  call  out  to  them,  their  own  lips  are  dumb.  Stretching  out 
our  arms  for  them,  their  own  are  bound  and  move  not.  Turning 
back  to  the  desolated  household,  what  utter  emptiness  is  there, 
silence  and  darkness  and  nothingness  where  was  fulness  and 
brightness  and  presence !  No  echo  of  a  voice  in  the  air ;  no 
footfall ;  never  so  light  a  touch  of  the  hand ;  gone,  utterly  gone ; 
henceforth  to  be  slipping  farther  and  farther  away  from  the 
treacherous  hold  of  memory. 

After  a  funeral  the  people  were  apt  to  linger,  dropping  off 
one  by  one,  each  to  his  own  way  and  work ;  only  relatives  and 
near  friends  staying  to  sit  down  to  unrelished  baked  meats. 
The  bier,  flinging  out  its  fantastic  arms,  always  marked  the 
newest-made  grave,  and  stayed  upon  it  until  transferred  to  that 
of  a  later  comer. 

I  have  listened  hours  to  a  village  necrology  from  the  lips  of 
an  old  woman,  who  never  missed  the  date  of  a  funeral,  nor  forgot 
the  way  the  wind  blew  on  the  day  of  it,  or  the  meats  the  mourners 
ate.  Her  tales,  told  mostly  in  rude  rhyme,  were  ludicrously 
minute,  yet  simple  and  touching.  It  was  like  the  unrolling  of 
a  panorama  of  scenes,  rough,  perhaps,  and  sharply  sketched  by 
a  few  lines,  but  most  admirable  for  truth  and  power.  Tender 
traditions,  quaint  old  customs,  you  are  all  a  part  of  the  treasures 
of  bygone  days. 


THERE  were  "hired  men" 
and  "  hired  women,"  but  no 
servants,  in  my  grandfather's 
day.     These  "  hired"  men  and 
women     were     the     sons    and 

daughters  of  respectable  farmers,  who  had  simply  transferred 
themselves  into  more  prosperous  homes  than  their  own.  There 
was  no  degradation  in  the  change.  Hard  labor  was  the  birth- 
right of  the  average  farmer's  boy,  and  he  cared  little  whether 
he  drudged  upon  his  father's  farm  or  upon  that  of  a  neigh- 
bor. The  girl  who  was  neat  and  thrifty  at  home  made  a  neat 
and  thrifty  "help,"  and  as  such  she  had  her  reward  in  a 
good  name  and  kindly  treatment.  Her  pay  was  very  small  as 
wages  are  now  reckoned,  but  ample  for  the  needs  of  her 
time.  Her  dress  was  suited  to  her  calling.  In  winter  it  was 
of  homespun  woollen ;  in  summer  it  was  of  strong  gingham,  also 

18 


134  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

home-made,  but  far  prettier  than  the  winter  garment.  The 
threads  of  the  latter,  spun  in  long  winter  evenings  and  dyed 
in  the  chimney-corner,  made  sombre,  unbecoming  stuffs.  The 
ginghams,  fancifully  checked  with  blue  or  yellow,  were  the  prod- 
uct of  the  flax-field.  The  rustic  weaver,  sitting  in  the  sunshine 
on  summer  days,  skilfully  plied  her  shuttle,  and  from  the  seeming 
entanglement  of  white  threads  with  blue  and  vellow  and  brown. 

o  «/  / 

rolled  off  from  the  beam  of  her  loom  an  admirable  web.  It  was 
cleaiirlooking  and  strong,  and  into  the  making  of  it  had  gone 
some  of  the  farm's  most  precious  products.  Underlying  its 
texture  were  the  dainty  blue  blossoms  of  the  flax-bed,  and  skill 
and  judgment  had  been  brought  to  bear  upon  each  of  the  many 
processes  of  its  handling. 

The  garments  made  from  it  would  now  seem  as  quaint  as  the 
web  itself.  Hannah  always  wore  when  working  about  the  house 
a  long,  broad  apron,  with  gathered  bib,  tied  at  the  neck  and  waist 
with  strings.  In  winter  this  was  of  blue  mixed  cotton  and  wool 
cloth,  and  in  summer  of  the  checked  blue  or  yellow  and  white 
gingham.  It  was  an  inseparable  part  of  her  working  attire,  a 
true  servant's  costume,  as  peculiar  and  becoming  to  her  vocation 
as  the  peasant  dress  of  any  other  country. 

This  Hannah,  the  "  hired  girl"  of  my  grandfather,  was  a  repre- 
sentative one.  Her  behavior  was  as  befitting  her  station  as 
her  dress.  Despite  the  seeming  equality  of  her  position  in  the 
household,  she  was  utterly  honest,  patient,  faithful,  and  respectful. 
She  never  changed  her  place,  and  she  spun  and  wove  and  knit 
and  stitched  her  strength  into  the  fabrics  of  the  house  until  her 


HANNAH  AND   JONATHAN.  135 

hair  grew  gray  and  her  eyes  dim  in  its  service.  Long  rule  made 
my  grandmother  somewhat  hard,  and  she  was  liable  to  exact 
from  Hannah,  as  a  right,  that  labor  which  she  had  first  bought 
as  a  privilege.  The  lifelong  serving- woman,  by  running  in  her 
narrow  groove  year  after  year,  had  become  a  sort  of  machine, 
and  her  mistress  had  learned  to  expect  the  unfailing  working  of 
it.  The  relation  was  not  a  tender  one,  but  it  was  honest  and 
respectable.  In  the  soil  of  that  New  England  life  the  pan  lay 
close  to  the  surface. 

Such  servants  as  Hannah  were  often  sought  in  marriage  by 
hard-working  young  farmers.  They  made  faithful,  thrifty  wives, 
and  their  houses  were  scrupulously  neat.  They  only  shifted  one 
drudgery  for  another,  but  in  their  own  humble  homes  pride 
was  added  to  the  patience  which  they  wove  into  the  webs  of 
their  employers. 

The  neighbors  talked  of  Hannah  as  having  been  a  good-looking 
lass,  but  when  Benny  and  I  first  knew  her  she  was  much  the 
worse  for  wear.  Still  her  faded  gray  eyes  looked  kindly  upon 
us  and  we  loved  her.  Nobody  seemed  to  think  that  Hannah 
had  grown  old.  Her  name  and  her  virtues  were  a  perennial 
possession  of  the  house  and  the  neighborhood.  She  was  always 
called  "Hannah."  Her  dress  and  her  ways  never  changed. 
What  went  to  make  up  "Hannah"  was  the  same  through  all 
years.  By  this  the  people  knew  her.  The  more  unkindly  time 
treated  her  body  the  more  valued  "  Hannah"  became.  The 
serving-woman  grew  lean  and  wrinkled  and  ugly,  but  "  Hannah" 
grew  venerable  and  beloved.  There  was  about  her  a  certain 


136  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

magnetism  which  ignored  station.  This  humble  serving-woman, 
this  "  Hannah"  in  her  homespun  tyre,  filled  with  wild  herbs  and 
roots,  carried  healing  with  her  to  sick  neighbors.  She  was  so 
gentle  that  she  was  more  welcome  than  her  mistress.  In  that 
household  into  which  death  had  come  Hannah  was  sure  to  be. 
The  softness  of  her  voice  and  touch  and  step  brought  consolation 
with  them.  There  was  something  in  her  life  that  preached, — 
that  great  faith  which  she  had  borne  with  her  from  childhood, 
and  which  she  plainly  shaped  into  simple  words, — that  utter 
self-sacrifice  which  clothed  her  like  a  garment,  and  put  out  of 
sight  all  that  was  homely  about  her.  The  sympathy  she  offered 
fell  like  balm  where  wiser  speech  failed. 

Hannah  had  queer  ways.  She  was  given  to  interior  adorn- 
ments, and  the  fruits  of  her  needlework  were  thick  in  the  house.' 
These  were  not  fine,  but  considering  the  material  from  which  she 
wrought  them,  and  the  time  and  patience  which  she  gave  to  them, 
they  were  worthy  of  praise.  She  pinned  black  broadcloth  cats 
to  the  wall,  brought  out  in  silhouette  upon  red  flannel.  As  por- 
traits they  were  failures,  and  little  Benny  was  always  saying  to 
her  that  he  was  sure  he  had  never  seen  any  cats  like  them.  She 
hung  novel  comb-cases  under  all  the  bedroom  looking-glasses. 
These  were  of  varied  shapes  and  materials,  some  of  broadcloth, 
some  of  straw,  and  less  pretentious  ones  of  covered  pasteboard, 
all  much  stitched  with  colored  silks.  The  patchwork  about  the 
house  was  endless.  Hannah  hoarded  scraps  of  silk  and  cambric, 
and  pieced  them  together  into  pin-balls,  chair-cushions,  and  cov- 
erlets. She  glued  painted  pictures  to  the  inside  of  wide-mouthed 


HANNAH  AND   JONATHAN. 


137 


glass  jars,  which  she  filled  with  flour  and  planted  with  asparagus, 

thus  simulating  quaint   vases.      She  embossed  blown  egg-shells 

with  the  pith  of  bulrushes,  coiled  round 

bits  of  bright  silk,  and  hung  them  upon 

pine  boughs  in  the  fireplaces  of  the  front 

rooms.      Homely   handiwork,    but    well 

seasoned  with  the  true  flavor  of  rustic 

life. 

Her  best  taste  she  gave  to  her 
flowers.     She  had  never  read  a 
book  on  flower-culture ;  her  lessons 
had     come     from 
woodland,  pas- 
ture,     and 
field.    From  her 
earliest  childhood  she  had 
been    used    to    blossoms, 
bright    and    sweet    and    growing 
just  where  they  ought   to  grow. 
Her  scarlet  poppies  set 
off  the  Southern-wrood 
bed,    v  hop- 
vines  hid 
the 


138  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

ragged  garden-wall,  and  lilies  and  rose-bushes  ran  riot  in 
corners.  She  had  her  bachelor's  buttons  and  marigolds  and 
pinks,  and  a  host  of  other  common  flowers,  crowded  against 
beets  and  carrots  and  parsnips,  wherever  she  could  get  a  chance 
for  them.  They  ran  parallel  -on  both  sides  with  the  broad, 
middle  garden-walk,  flanked  the  edges  of  side-beds,  and  faced 
their  outermost  paths  with  a  fringe  of  sweetness.  Coming  up 
two-leaved  and  tiny,  they  had  a  hard  fight  against  my  grand- 
father's and  Jonathan's  hoes;  but  they  throve  nevertheless,  and 
ripened  into  the  bloom  and  fragrance  of  the  garden.- 

Lilac-bushes  straggled  about  unpruned,  and  were  troublesomely 
prolific.  Forty  years  ago  they  stood  compactly  by  the  doorsteps 
and  under  the  windows  of  most  well-to-do-farmers'  houses,  from 
their  toughness  and  brightness  fit  country  shrubs.  The  grateful, 
abundant  thing  took  kindly  to  any  earth,  to  any  location,  climb- 
ing out  of  shade  into  sunshine,  spreading  rapidly  in  bright  places, 
a  good  worker,  and  long  suffering  of  ill  usage.  I  remember  one, 
shut  into  the  angle  of  a  tall  fence,  which,  although  most  dense 
of  foliage,  was  the  grief  of  my  early  childhood,  because  of  its 
barrenness ;  but  which,  the  very  first  spring  it  reached  the  top- 
most board,  was  purple  with  blossoms. 

Hannah's  rose-bushes  never  had  any  pruning,  save  what  nature 
gave  them.  Old  stocks  died  down,  and  new  ones  came  in  their 
stead.  They  seemed  always  to  be  dying  and  coming  to  life  again. 
They  were  unmercifully  knocked  about  and  trampled  upon  by 
spring  workers ;  hens  burrowed  through  their  roots ;  and  yet 
they  always  came  out  every  spring  as  good  as  new,  and  bore 


HANNAH  AND   JONATHAN.  139 

the  largest  and  sweetest  of  roses.  I  do  not  see  such  roses  now, 
so  full  of  scent,  so  deep-dyed,  as  the  double  damask  and  white 
ones  which  blossomed  in  my  grandfather's  garden.  It  seems 
as  if  they  must  have  gotten  their  strength  from  the  rugged  soil. 
The  damask  ones  were  like  peonies  for  size,  and  their  bushes, 
thick  with  full-blown  flowers  and  buds,  in  every  stage  of  opening, 
were  only  surpassed  for  beauty  by  those  of  the  creamy-white 
rose,  which  were  as  soft-tinted  as  the  first  blush  of  dawn,  and 
daintily-scented  as  the  quickening  breath  of  spring. 

Hannah's  flowers  were  all  sweet-smelling,  gracious,  hardy, 
grateful  things.  Her  pinks  were  marvels  for  color  and  scent. 
Her  bachelor's  buttons,  blue  and  purple  and  white,  perfumed 
the  morning.  Her  columbines,  wild  denizens  of  the  garden,  kept 
always  a  woodland  flavor.  They  got  mixed  and  unsettled  as 
to  color,  but  held  fast  their  untamed  nature. 

The  pride  of  the  garden  were  the  two  peony  roots,  just  inside 
the  gate  on  either  side.  They  were  amongst  the  earliest  comers 
in  spring,  peeping  up  out  of  the  brown  mould  with  their  great 
crimson  leaf-buds,  which  speedily  thrust  up  into  strong  stocks, 
to  be  the  bearers  of  as  many  blossoms.  How  .those  peonies 
grew !  New  stocks  came  up  every  year,  and  each  new  stock 
seemed  to  bring  with  it  a  peony  heavier  and  deeper-dyed  than 
before.  Jonathan  tied  them  up  every  season;  but  still  they 
waxed  bigger  and  bigger,  until  a  barrel  hoop  would  not  hold 
them.  They  were  the  envy  of  all  the  children,  and  the  admi- 
ration of  farmers'  wives. 

Poor  unlettered  Hannah,  so  patient  in  her  round  of  homely 


140  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

toil,  so  fond  of  flowers,  had  an  untaught  delight  in  beautiful 
things.  Treading  with  weary  feet  her  toilsome  way,  she  trans- 
muted the  joys  and  sorrows  and  stinted  incidents  of  her  homely 
life  into  pure  gold ;  and  making  the  most  of  her  meagre  chances, 
has  compelled  me  to  remember  her  not  so  much  by  what  she 
was  as  by  what  she  might  have  been.  We  can  never  rate  a 
person  justly  until  we  have  disentangled  the  story  of  his  or  her 
life  from  the  impetus  or  hindrance  given  to  it  by  fortune.  What 
Hannah  was  I  know ;  what  she  might  have  been  is  suggested  by 
her  largeness  of  heart  and  sweetness  of  instinct.  With  proper 
scope  here  this  serving-woman  might  have  been  a  lady.  Who 
shall  say  now  that  she  was  not  a  lady ;  and  that  what  she  was 
equal  to,  and  got  not  in  this  life,  she  is  in  eternity  finding  in 
full  measure  ? 

But  Jonathan.  Ah,  Jonathan !  what  shall  I  say  of  thee  ? 
The  first  sight  I  had  of  thee,  thou  wast  sitting  in  the  old  market- 
wagon,  smoking  and  cross-legged.  When  I  last  saw  thee,  thou 
wast  sitting  in  the  miller's  door,  still  smoking  and  cross-legged. 
Unshaven,  unshorn,  with  nose,  chin,  and  cheeks  all  awry,  his 
nether  garments  shrinking  from  his  blue  hosen,  his  bristly  hair 
standing  out  from  his  weather-worn  hat,  Jonathan  lounged  on 
the  low  stoop,  puffing  away  at  his  pipe,  joking  with  "  Molly" 
and  the  miller,  and  interlarding  his  slow  talk  with  many  a  "yaw" 
and  "  wall." 

Yet,  with  all  his  uncouthness  of  person,  dress,  and  dialect,  he 
was  a  true  Jonathan,  honest,  self-reliant,  hard-working,  kind  even 
to  gentleness.  He  was  tender  of  children,  and  merciful  to  all 


HANNAH  AND  JONATHAN. 


141 


dumb  creatures.  When  a  young  lamb  chanced  to  stray  from 
the  fold,  it  was  Jonathan  who  stayed  out  two-thirds  of  the  chilly 
autumn  night  until  he  had  found  it,  and  then  nursed  it  until  it 
was  strong  again.  "  Good  Jonathan,"  said  little  Benny,  in  the 
wanderings  of  his  sickness.  "  Good  Jonathan,"  echoes  my  heart 
after  many  years. 


HEY  lived  at^my  grandfather's 
just  as  most  of  the  well-to- 
do  New  England  farmers 
lived  forty  years  ago.  On 
Monday  morning,  long  be- 
fore sun-rise,  my  grandmother 
and  Hannah  would  be  busy  be- 
fore two  steaming  tubs  in  the  long  porch.  By  this  early  start 
they  got  the  freshness  of  the  morning.  The  sun  came  up 
from  behind  the  distant  hills,  lifted  shadows  from  the  wood- 
land, mist  from  the  valley,  and  cast  a  shimmer  upon  the  dew- 
covered  fields.  It  streamed  through  the  porch-door,  across 
the  floor,  past  the  washers,  and  exalted  what  was  a  little 
while  before  only  the  dull  aspect  of  labor  to  a  share  of  the 
brightness  of  the  morning.  There  is  a  transient  time  between 
the  uprising  of  the  sun  from  the  horizon  and  its  full  pos- 
session of  the  landscape,  in  which  there  is  a  sort  of  pictorial 
aspect  of  the  meeting  of  day  with  night,  which  is  exquisitely 


THE    WEEKLY  ROUTINE. 


143 


beautiful.  Only  the  country-liver  can  fully  feel  it — this  dying 
of  night  with  the  birth  of  day — this  supreme  moment  when  the 
mists  and  dimness  and  low  voices  of  the  one  exhale  into  the 
melody  and  brightness  of  the  other.  It  is  a  daily  miracle — this 
sudden  transition  from  gray  to  rosy  light — this  unrolling  of  the 
dew-covered  landscape — this  assumption,  in  delicious  crescendo, 
of  sound — this  quickening  of  the  day's  life  over  the  sleep  of 


night — this  flying  of  darkness,  as  of  a  ghost  pursued,  before  the 
flooding  of  light — this  oldest  of  all  stories  again  told.  Awake, 
for  the  day  has  dawned ! 

In  those  days  women  washed  who  went  to  church  in  brocades 
and  satins.  They  used  no  machinery,  there  was  no  bleaching- 
powder  nor  blueing  in  their  tubs,  and  yet  their  linen  came  out, 


144  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

as  Hannah  used  to  say  to  my  grandmother,  "  as  white  as  the 
driven  snow."  These  two  women  kept  time  at  their  scrubbing, 
and  in  the  early  morning,  when  they  were  fresh,  hummed  psalm 
tunes  together.  They  were  not  belittled  by  this  labor,  but  by 
their  efficiency  and  content  they  gave  dignity  to  it.  It  may 
have  broadened  their  hands, — I  am  sure  it  did  their  chests, — but 
they  accepted,  with  the  utmost  willingness,  -these  clumsy  and 
necessary  toils  of  their  living.  How  I  longed  to  plunge  my 
arms  into  the  foaming,  sparkling,  rainbow-tinted  suds,  in  spite 
of  Hannah's  bleached,  parboiled  lingers !  When  Jonathan  had 
carried  the  tubs  to  the  well  for  the  final  rinsing  of  the  linen, 
it  was  my  care  afterwards  to  keep  Betsy,  the  old  horse,  from 
walking  under  it,  flapping  snow-white  upon  the  line.  Those 
washing-days  were  some  of  the  best  play-days  and  dream-days 
of  my  childhood.  Who  can  number  the  bubbles  of  both  suds 
and  brain  which  have  sparkled  and  floated  away  in  the  atmosphere 
of  their  quaint  surroundings  ? 

The  east-porch  door  was,  my  grandmother  said,  "  a  sightly 
place."  Far  away  on  the  horizon,  between  two  hills,  nestled  a 
small  hamlet.  The  deep  valley  below  was  dense  with  an  old 
forest,  from  which  a  belt  of  green  fields  arose  and  fell  again 
to  make  a  bed  for  the  mill-stream,  down  to  which  stretched  my 
grandfather's  broad  acres.  The  mill  and  the  roof  of  the  miller's 
red  cottage  were  just  in  sight,  and  the  clatter  of  wheels  and 
the  babbling  of  waters  were  pleasant  to  hear.  Around  the  corner 
one  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  brook  where  Molly,  the  miller's 
daughter,  bleached  her  linen,  and  Jonathan  loitered  with  her 


THE    WEEKLY  ROUTINE.  145 

when  his  day's  work  was  done.  Farther  on  was  Benny's  little 
grave. 

In  that  porch-door  I  used  to  sit  and  dream  away  the  day, 
listening  to  the  harmless  talk  of  the  washers,  who  never  let  a 
traveller  go  unheeded  on  the  highway.  What  innocent  gossip 
it  was,  as  I  hear  it  now,  whispering  through  the  years  !  "  Where 
is  the  parson  going  this  early  ?"  "  Who  can  be  sick  now  ?  the 
doctor  is  riding  like  the  wind."  "  I  shouldn't  think  Mrs.  Brown 
could  spare  Sally  for  school  to-day."  Thus  one  by  one  the 
wayfarers  went  by,  and  the  washers  watched  and  babbled 
until  they  grew  tired  with  their  work,  and  so  unobservant  and 
silent. 

Twice  a  week,  with  much  method  and  little  bustle,  quantities 
of  butter  and  cheese  were  made  ready  for  the  market.  The 
unctuous  odor  of  those  tasks  comes  back  to  me,  and  I  still  taste 
the  all-pervading  flavor  of  the  cheese-room.  I  see  the  clumsy 
press,  trickling  with  sour  juices,  the  polished  wooden  bowls,  the 
rows  of  shining  pans  set  out  to  scald  in  the  sunshine,  mistress 
and  maid,  in  checked  homespun  aprons,  shaping  the  golden 
butter  or  cutting  the  tender  curd.  Dear,  simple-hearted  women ! 
your  work  was  the  common  task  of  a  farmer's  household,  but  you 
made  it  seem  like  a  pastime  by  the  skill  you  brought  to  bear 
upon  it.  It  might  have  been  drudgery  in  other  hands,  but  in 
yours  it  only  showed  how  little  the  dignity  of  labor  depends  upon 
what  one  does,  and  how  much  upon  the  way  in  which  tasks  are 
taken  up.  Untoward  accidents  sometimes  happened.  The  cream 
would  not  give  up  its  butter,  or  the  cheese  cracked  in  turning, 


146  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

mishaps  dreaded  by  skilful  dairy-women.  Old  Nance,  who  lived 
in  the  edge  of  the  wood,  beyond  the  miller's  cottage,  was  sup- 
posed to  bewitch  farmers'  cows  to  the  spoiling  of  their  products, 
without  mercy,  and  many  a  farm-house  door  had  nailed  upon 
its  lintel  a  horseshoe  as  a  charm  against  her  plottings.  If  there 
was  any  virtue  in  them  the  old  woman  lay  down  often  at  night 
with  uneasy  bones.  Old  Nance  was  a  forlorn,  crazed  creature, 
whose  early  history  had  been  dropped  out  of  speech,  and  who 
throve  best  in  her  half-savage  woodland  life.  The  farmers  added 
to  the  pittance  which  the  selectmen  grudgingly  gave  her,  so  that 
she  never  suffered  for  food  or  clothing.  Every  ambition  had  died 
out  of  her.  She  seemed  to  have  but  one  vestige  of  humanity 
left,  and  that  was  her  affection  for  the  living  things  in  the  woods 
about  her.  Birds  were  always  hovering  over  her  hut,  and  in 
winter  the  snow  around  it  was  thick  with  footprints  of  untamed 
creatures  which  had  come  to  pick  up  the  crumbs  she  had  pinched 
for  them  from  her  poverty.  Nothing  could  be  more  repulsive 
than  this  haggard  old  woman,  crouching  over  her  embers  in  her 
one-roomed  hut,  or  groping  with  a  faded  shawl  over  her  head 
for  fagots  amongst  the  white  snow  of  the  forest.  She  was  a 
blot  upon  the  landscape,  this  waif  of  humanity  stranded  alongside 
the  purity  of  domestic  life. 

Uncouth  old  safe,  dearer  to  my  grandmother  than  costly  bric-a- 
brac  to  modern  fine  lady,  nobody  seems  to  make  nowadays  such 
cheeses  as  bulged  out  your  canvas  sides,  prettily  mottled  with 
tansy  or  wholesome  yarrow,  and  crumbling  under  the  knife  when 
cut.  They  had  a  toothsome  way  of  dissolving  in  the  mouth, 


THE    WEEKLY  ROUTINE.  147 

and  tickling  the  palate  with  a  pleasant  tingle.  The  fine  grain 
of  the  products  of  my  grandmother's  dairy  might  have  been 
due  to  the  fineness  of  her  own  texture.  I  have  more  often  tasted 
far  coarser  results  from  like  material.  Hers  looked  and  tasted 
like  the  work  of  a  lady. 

The  heavy  labor  of  the  day  over,  and  the  hearth  swept  and 
scrubbed,  my  grandmother  and  Hannah,  who  were  never  idle, 
sat  down  to  their  mending,  or  the  one  went  to  her  distaff  and 
the  other  to  her  weaving.  My  grandmother  was  never  hand- 
somer than  she  was  when  sitting  by  her  little  flax-wheel,  with 
a  handkerchief  of  white  muslin  about  her  neck,  her  snow-white 
hair  drawn  under  her  plain  cap,  and  the  rosy  sunlight  of  the 
waning  day  falling  across  her  faded  face  and  still  fine  figure. 
Upon  her  also  fell,  like  a  benediction,  that  soft-tinted  later  beauty 
which  is  the  inheritance  of  vigorous,  ripe  old  age.  Hannah, 
glorified  by  the  same  sunlight,  played  her  plainer  part,  and  sat 
by  her  wheel  or  at  her  loom,  her  attire  and  mien  adjusted  to  her 
station  with  a  singular  fitness. 

The  clatter  of  the  loom  in  the  chamber  and  the  whizzing  of 
the  flax-wheel  below  made  a  constant  hum  of  industry  in  the 
old  farm-house.  Much  wool  was  also  spun,  and  the  moaning 
of  the  big  wheel  was  the  saddest  sound  of  my  childhood.  .It 
was  like  a  low  wail  from  out  the  lengthened  monotony  of  the 
spinner's  life.  I  used  to  stop  my  ears  against  it,  and  many 
a  time  have  run  down  to  the  woodland  to  get  away  from  its 
painful  persistence.  The  same  wail,  taking  other  shapes,  has 
followed  me  ever  since,  and  after  all  there  is  to  every  life,  even 


148  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

the   seemingly  most   fortunate,  a   deep   undertone   of  complaint 
and  resistance. 

My  grandmother's  little  flax-wheel  was  a  gossipy  thing,  whirring 
away  at  racy  bits  of  news  falling  from  the  lips  of  demure  old 
ladies  in  broad  frilled  caps  and  square  neckerchiefs.  How  like 
they  had  all  grown  by  walking  in  the  same  rut  all  their  days ! 
The  only  individual  flavor  about  them  seemed  to  lie  in  the 
diverse  figures  on  their  snuff-box  covers,  and  the  varied  stitchings 
of  their  goose-quill  knitting-sheaths.  How  they  talked  and  knit, 
and  knit  and  talked,  with  tireless  tongues,  putting  in  marks  at 
their  narrowings ;  slowly  shaping  their  socks  with  oft-repeated 
measurings !  Upon  one  of  them,  flighty  Huldah,  I  look  back 
with  peculiar  liking.  She  was  a  full-blooded  little  gossip,  the 
kindest  of  mischief-makers.  Everything  about  her,  her  dried- 
up,  sinewy  figure,  snapping  gray  eyes  and  shrill  voice,  her  yawn- 
ing calash,  huge  reticule,  and  broad  pocket  were  in  keeping  with 
her  calling.  Everybody  was  glad  to  see  Huldah's  blue  cotton 
umbrella  bobbing  up  and  down  upon  the  highway  ;  and  no  crone 
was  surer  than  she  of  light  rolls  and  a  strong  cup  of  tea.  She 
always  carried  an  umbrella  through  rain  or  shine  because,  she 
once  confidingly  whispered  to  little  Benny,  she  was  "just  the  least 
bit  flighty  in  the  upper  story."  She  was  particular  about  the 
quality  of  her  snuff,  and  most  generous  with  it.  The  cow  on 
the  cover  of  her  box  was  the  delight  of  all  youngsters.  Flighty 
though  she  was,  she  had,  Jonathan  said,  "  an  uncommon  taking 
way  with  her."  She  praised  the  farmers'  crops  and  the  gude- 
wives'  linen.  She  had  a  gift  of  making  you  pleased  with  yourself. 


THE    WEEKLY  ROUTINE. 


149 


I  can  hear  her  now,  "  They  du  say,  Jonathan,  that  Molly  is  just 
the  peer  test  and  pootiest  gal  in  town.     Lors  me!  Hannah,  you 
can  du  more  work  than  any  other  gal."     She  was  most  excellent 
in    sickness,  —  endless  in   pa- 
tience, and  a  sleepless  watcher. 
There    was   a   charm  in    the 
very    click    of    her    needles, 
which   seemed   to    keep  time 
with  the  blinking  of  her  eyes. 
I  was  sure,  though,  that  many 
of  her  stitches  were  false  ones, 
and  Hannah  held  her  stockings 
in  high  contempt.     Her  true 
hold   upon  the  patience   and 
affections  of  the  people  lay  in 
that  very  flightiness  of  which 
she  was  so  pathetically  con- 
scious,—  an    infirmity   which 
never   fails    to    touch    the 
sympathy   of    the    rudest 


V 


people.  She  pro- 
fessed to  live  with 
her  brother,  although  \ 

her  true  abiding-place 
was  with  her  towns- 
people at  large.  Her  unbidden  coming  always  brought  them 

good.     The   charities  of   her  simple   heart  were   as  broad   and 

20 


150  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

healing  as  if  her '  brain  had  been  stronger,  and  the  draft  she 
made  upon  their  pity  came  back  to  them  in  kindly  acts.  No 
hearth  was  ever  too  crowded  to  take  her  into  its  circle ;  no  hand 
ever  too  busy  to  grasp  hers  in  welcome.  So  this  half-crazy 
woman,  chattering  and  laughing  with  a  wild  wit,  with  no  single 
external  grace  to  commend  her,  through  the  mystic  way  of 
humanity  passed  like  a  beatitude  across  her  neighbors'  thresholds. 
Her  foibles  weighed  with  them  as  gossamer ;  but  the  sweetness 
of  her  mission  stayed  after  her.  Poor  Huldah !  The  first  time 
I  left  my  grandfather's  home  alone  her  cotton  umbrella  stood  by 
the  door.  She  herself  patted  me  on  the  head,  called  me  a  good 
child,  and  gave  me  a  piece  of  dried  gingerbread  out  of  her 
snuffy  reticule.  The  gingerbread  I  threw  into  the  highway,  but 
the  quaint  picture  6f  the  kind-hearted,  wandering  old  woman — 
many  years  dead,  and  whom  I  never  saw  again — I  cannot  throw 
away. 

Saturday  at  my  grandfather's  brought  baking,  with  its  morning 
bustle.  Such  a  hurrying  and  scurrying  and  sputtering  and 
splashing  as  there  was !  For  a  short  space  misrule  seemed  to 
have  invaded  the  household.  The  big  oven  crackled  and  roared, 
whilst  Jonathan  plied  it  with  fuel.  Hannah  was  reckless  with 
milk  and  eggs.  My  grandmother  kept  up  a  continued  rattling 
of  spoons  and  pans,  and  I  seemed  always  to  be  in  the  way. 
Gradually  materials  took  shape.  The  fire  died  down  in  the 
oven ;  Jonathan  cleared  and  swept  it,  and  shut  it  up.  Shortly 
it  was  opened  and  tried,  and  then  packed  with  pots  and  pans 
and  plates,  close  up  to  the  brim.  Doughnuts  sizzled  and  steamed 


THE    WEEKLY  ROUTINE. 


151 


in  the  big  pot  on  the  crane,  and  the  scent  of  food,  cooked  and 
uncooked,  was  far-reaching  and  positive,  pleasant  and  appetizing. 
The  household,  by  degrees,  settled  down.  The  doughnuts  were 
skimmed  out  and  the  fat  set  by  to  cool.  The  hearth  was  swept ; 
the  floors  and  tables  scrubbed ;  soiled  garments  were  changed  for 
fresh ;  and,  with  the  twilight,  peace  seemed  to  come  in  through 
doors  and  windows, — peace  to  rest  upon  the  white  heads  of  aged 
man  and  aged  woman,  upon  their  man-servant  and  maid-servant, 
and  upon  the  child  within  their  gates. 


HE  essence  of  neighborliness  is  fine- 
grained. Its  charity  suffereth  long  and 
is  kind ;  its  humanity  never  wearieth ; 
it  is  unbound  by  custom  ;  unbought  by 
price;  a  perennial  spring;  an  invaluable 
gift.  Behold  in  a  woman  your  model 

country  neighbor.  She  is  lynx-eyed,  but  not  over-curious ;  spon- 
taneous, but  not  familiar ;  helpful,  but  not  aggressive.  She  takes 
note  of  your  necessities,  which  she  relieves  without  ostentation. 
So  great  is  her  generosity  of  effort  that  she  keeps  no  account 
in  memory  of  those  deeds  by  which  she  has  made  you  her  debtor. 
If  she  needs  you  she  freely  asks  of  you.  She  is  more  reticent 
of  her  words  than  her  works ;  and  weighs  well  her  speech,  that 
by  it  her  social  relations  may  not  be  marred.  She  is  unmoved 
by  impulse  or  prejudice.  She  may  be  hard  of  exterior,  but  ten- 
derness dwells  in  her.  If  bidden  to  a  feast  she  goes  to  it  in 
her  best  attire,  with  serious  dignity ;  but  into  the  sick-room  she 


NEIGHBORS.  153 

glides  with  unchanged  garments,  bearing  with  her  the  healing 
of  herbs,  softness  of  presence,  and  a  feeling  heart. 

My  first-born  was  buried  from  a  country  home.  His  short 
life  had  been  of  no  use  to  any  one  outside  of  that  home.  To  my 
neighbors  he  had  left  nothing  worthy  of  remembrance;  he  had 
made  hardly  a  ripple  upon  the  surface  of  their  quiet  lives.  He 
had  simply  come  and  passed  away.  Lo!  what  was  wrought  by 
the  silent  mystery  of  his  death.  They  thronged  about  him. 
They  touched  his  white  garments  with  exquisite  tenderness,  and 
let  fall  upon  them  tears  of  pity  and  love.  One  of  them  wrapped 
him  in  his  winding-sheet,  smoothed  his  hair  prettily,  and  touched 
his  brow  with  a  holy,  motherly  kiss. 

Beloved  country  neighbors  of  another  home,  dear  are  the 
memories  of  your  spontaneous  kindness  to  me  and  mine, — you 
true,  tender-hearted,  free-handed,  helpful,  bygone  neighbors. 
Tirzah,  0  Tirzah  the  good !  you  were  hard- worked  and  plain ; 
but  you  were  so  clothed  upon  with  self-denial,  kindness,  and 
charity  that  my  children  loved  you,  and  you  were  beautiful  to 
them.  They  never  missed  in  you  any  graces ;  to  them  you  were 
pure  gold.  Dear  old  woman !  when  your  weary  feet  shall  pass 
over  to  the  shining  shore,  two,  I  am  sure,  will  gladly  go  down 
to  meet  you.  Kind  old  Tirzah,  may  I  some  time  see  you  in  the 
beautiful  garments  of  immortality  !  "  God  bless  Tirzah  !"  lisped 
Marion,  in  infantile  speech ;  and  night  after  night  went  up  this 
simple  petition  until  the  child's  tongue  forgot  its  cunning. 

My  grandfather's  neighbors  were  scattered  over  a  wide  space 
of  country.  The  nearest  one  of  them  was  half  a  mile  away ; 


154  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

but  distance  only  seemed  to  lend  zest  to  their  intercourse  with 
one  another.  Lack  of  diversion  also  gave  impulse  to  it.  The 
drama  they  all  helped  to  play  was  upon  a  narrow  stage,  with  few 
acts ;  and  they,  the  actors  in  it,  were  so  far  apart  that  each  stood 
out  to  the  others  most  conspicuous  for  the  right  or  wrong  render- 
ing of  his  part.  Every  incident  and  accident  of  one's  daily  life 
was,  to  his  neighbor,  what  his  costumes  are  to  the  player  in  the 
theatre,  a  sort  of  marking  of  him.  His  horse,  his  oxen,  his 
wagon,  and  his  dog  identified  him,  like  the  wearing  of  a  stage 
garment ;  and  all  his  incomings  and  outgoings,  all  the  ,ways  of 
his  household,  were  most  familiar  to  his  townspeople.  Sunday 
noonings  made  neighbors  ;  the  courtesies  of  hayings  and  harvest- 
ings brought  them  together ;  and  the  leisure  of  winter  revealed 
each  to  the  other.  They  were  compelled  to  be  dependent  upon, 
and  so  kind  to,  one  another, — these  simple,  isolated  people. 
They  found  relief  from  the  restraint  of  labor  and  the  suppression 
of  their  working  days  in  their  holiday  garrulousness,  and  their 
eager  recognition  of  every  other  man  and  woman  as  their  neigh- 
bor. When  clad  in  their  best  suits,  with  a  little  respite  from 
toil,  their  whole  natures  seemed  to  rebound;  and  silent,  stern 
men  became  eager  chatterers.  Very  simple  gossip  it  was,  mainly 
of  herds  and  crops  and  town  affairs.  They  thronged  the  meeting- 
house steps  on  Sundays,  gathered  in  knots  about  the  village 
stores,  and  never  failed  on  the  highway  to  salute  one  another 
with  much  speech.  The  smallest  mishap  to  the  one  was  speedily 
known  to  the  rest,  and  this  large  recognition  came  back  manifold 
in  sympathy. 


NEIGHBORS. 


155 


Extreme  deference  was  exacted  from  children  to  parents,  and 
from  youth  to  old  age.  Amongst  the  men  there  was  little  social 
assumption,  save  that  the  best  thinkers,  known  as  such,  took 
unto  themselves  a  certain  boldness  of  speech.  Their  salutations 


followed  custom,  and  their  common  talk  ran  in  grooves ;  but  the 
mass  of  them  were  as  strong  in  logic  as  their  soil  was  in  rock ; 
and  they  were  almost  as  easily  turned  as  the  latter  from  their 
slow-formed  opinions.  They  were  weather-wise  almost  to  accuracy, 
and  foretold  to  one  another  the  coming  and  shifting  of  storms. 


156  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

Nothing  could  be  quainter  upon  the  highway  than  the  meeting 
in  midsummer  of  two  anxious  farmers  in  their  high-backed 
wagons.  They  stopped,  compared  the  size  and  state  of  their 
exposed  crops ;  and  then  fell  to  watching  the  clouds,  each  shading 
his  eyes  with  his  hand.  Hardy,  resolute,  half-defiant,  they  had 
a  sort  of  heathen  aspect — these  sons  of  and  worshippers  of  the 
soil.  Their  hopes,  and  so  their  hearts,  were  bound  up  in  the 
signs  of  sun  and  wind  and  cloud,  and  they  naturally  grew  into 
such  picturesque  and  harmless  idolaters. 

The  women  of  my  grandfather's  neighborhood  were  more  given 
to  social  distinctions  than  the  men.  The  wives  of  "  forehanded" 
farmers  and  professional  men  were  apt  to  be  somewhat  exalted, 
or,  in  the  speech  of  the  times,  "  looked  up  to."  This  was  because 
of  a  partial  exemption  from  toil;  and  they  lacked  the  intensity, 
the  wild  flavor,  of  those  humbler  women,  who  threw  their  whole 
strength  and  will  into  their  vocations,  and  thus  made  themselves 
worthy  of  better  things.  What  if  these  latter  did  seem  like 
drudges,  and  grow  hard  and  ugly  to  sight ;  the  patience  and  the 
power  and  the  will  to  do  were  still  in  them,  and  the  price  they 
paid  for  their  fidelity  gave  a  pathetic  nobleness  to  the  sacrifice. 

The  women  were,  as  a  class,  religious.  They  were  not  emo- 
tional, busy,  bustling  Christians.  They  knew  little  about  missions 
and  Dorcas  societies.  There  was  not  much  poverty  to  tax  their 
sympathies.  They  were  learned  in  doctrines,  firm  of  faith,  and 
full  of  a  simple  reverence.  They  were  never  so  fagged  or  bur- 
dened that  they  could  not,  on  the  Lord's  day,  lay  aside  their 
cares  and  toils,  and  go  up  to  His  house.  It  ought  to  have  been 


NEIGHBORS.  157 

an  easy  thing  for  these  women  to  enter  into  the  kingdom.  Their 
life  here  was  so  hard  upon  them  that  the  life  to  come  must  have 
held  out  to  their  weary  souls  a  picture,  beyond  all  measure 
delightful,  of  the  eternal  rest,  the  everlasting  peace  of  the  true 
gospel. 

The  meagreness  of  their  lot  begot  in  many  of  them  a  stinginess 
about  dollars  and  cents ;  but  the  most  carnal-minded  of  them 
were  truly  reverent  on  the  Lord's  day ;  and  they  all  endured 
frost-bites  and  long  sermons,  in  their  unwarmed  churches,  with 
a  praiseworthy  patience.  Sweet  to  them  was  the  hush  of  their 
restful  Sabbaths.  It  was  the  sign  and  token  to  them  of  a  Sabbath 
that  should  never  end. 

When  their  children  were  young,  these  ancient  mothers  had 
to  clothe  them  with  garments  spun  and  woven  by  their  own 
hands ;  and  for  the  daughters,  as  they  grew  up,  table-linen  and 
bedding  were  to  be  stored  away  for  their  "fixing  out."  In  my 
grandmother's  day  this  thrifty  forecasting  of  fate  was  the  custom 
in  farmers'  families,  and  she  was  deemed  rich  to  whose  treasures 
gifts  of  silver  and  china  were  also  added.  Daughters  were  ex- 
pected to  marry.  Marriage  brought  extra  care  and  toil  to  a 
woman ;  but  she  did  not  shrink  from  that,  for  labor  was  her 
lot ;  and  she  of  the  humbler  sort,  to  whom  no  suitor  came,  was 
quite  sure  to  take  up  her  narrower  vocation  as  tailoress  or  dress- 
maker or  household  servant.  It  was  thought  to  be  generous 
in  a  farmer  to  let  his  daughter  "  learn  a  trade,"  thus  freeing 
her  from  the  heavier  drudgeries  of  farm-work.  There  must 
have  been  cheapened  lives,  but  there  were,  at  least,  no  idle  ones 

21 


158  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

amongst  these  women.  They  began  their  lustrous  webs  in  early 
girlhood.  They  accepted  their  condition  as  they  found  it ;  they 
did  with  all  their  might  what  the  Lord  gave  them  to  do,  and 
so  were  in  their  calling  true  livers. 

The  tailoress,  with  her  awkward  goose,  stitching  and  pressing 
coarse  cloths  into  homely  garments,  grew  gray-haired  in  the 
service  of  friendly  neighbors.  Her  meagre  pay,  through  long 
hoarding,  rolled  up  with  years.  She  got  to  be  a  house-owner 
and  land-owner,  and  so  a  woman  of  repute  and  weight  amongst 
others.  Lucy  and  Hester  were  two  such  humble  neighbors  of 
my  grandfather's.  They  were  in  middle  life  when  I  knew  them ; 
two  sisters,  to  whom  their  father,  in  dying,  had  left  a  life  interest 
in  his  house  and  estate.  This  was  the  usual  way  in  those  days 
of  providing  for  the  old  age  of  unmarried  daughters  ;  not  the 
most  safe  or  generous  way  for  them,  but  consistent  with  their 
training  and  habits  of  self-reliance.  With  health,  they  were  sure 
to  be  self-supporting,  and  in  sickness  and  old  age  they  would  be 
cared  for,  grudgingly  it  might  be,  in  the  rooms  set  apart  for 
them  in  the  old  homestead. 

Lucy  and  Hester  might  have  well  dreaded  any  possible  de- 
pendence upon  their  brother,  a  crabbed,  morose  man,  whose  surly 
nature  seemed  to  infect  his  home  and  all  its  surroundings.  It 
was  a  dismal,  joyless-looking  house.  Seen  from  a  distance,  it 
had  a  most  inhospitable  look,  unsoftened  by  any  green,  growing 
thing,  uncorniced,  unpainted,  grim,  cold,  forbidding.  The  room 
of  Lucy  and  Hester  seemed  to  catch  all  the  sunshine  lying  about 
it.  Their  goose  was  always  pounding  at  seams,  their  tongues 


NEIGHBORS. 


159 


were  always  going  in  concert,  and  they  were  the  busiest,  cheeriest, 
plumpest,   most  prosperous  of  old  maids.     They  had  money  in 
the  bank ;  how  much  no  one  knew,  but  rumor  added  to  it  faster 
than  their  nimble  fingers  could  ever  have 
earned  it,  until  they  came  to  be  esteemed 
rich  women.     People  wondered  why  they 
had   never   married,  for  they  were  fair- 
faced  and  womanly,  and  full  of  lovable- 
ness  in  their  low  degree.    They  were  fond 

of  children,  and 
took  several 
little  boys  to 
bring  up,  but 
somehow  these 
all  turned  out 
badly.  One 
stole  some  of 
their  hard- 
earned  money, 
another  tried 
to  burn  their 
house.  People 
said  the  sisters 
were  too  easy 

with  them.  It  may  be,  after  all,  that  they  had  fallen  upon  their 
true  vocation,  and  that  they  were  jollier  and  more  useful  with  their 
goose  in  hand  than  they  would  have  been  as  wives  and  mothers. 


160  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

Joseph  their  brother  did  not  mar  their  comfort  much,  for  they 
were  not  in  his  power.  His  wife  died  early  of  overwork,  leaving 
her  tasks  and  her  discomforts  as  an  inheritance  to  her  daughter. 
This  daughter,  Abigail  by  name,  was  a  tall,  thin,  but  sweet-faced 
girl,  who,  when  I  first  saw  her,  was  drudging  her  life  out  for 
her  cruel  father.  She  had  a  lover  in  a  well-to-do  farmer  from 
the  next  town,  but  she  never  married.  The  linen  was  all  spun 
and  woven  and  packed  away ;  the  bridal  dress  was  made  ready, 
and  then,  one  June  day,  she  who  was  to  have  worn  it  was  borne 
out  to  the  family  burial-place. 

Not  long  after  the  father  died  suddenly  and  unmourned.  Then 
Lucy  and  Hester  came  into  full  possession  of  the  farm.  They 
took  down  the  little  sign  "  Tailoring  done  here"  from  their  win- 
dow, planted  lilacs  and  rose-bushes  about  the  house,  and  trained 
a  creeper  over  the  front  door.  They  did  not  make  many  changes, 
but  somehow  the  dismal  look  went  out  of  the  place,  and  the  cheer, 
which  before  was  confined  to  their  own  one  room,  now  seemed 
to  pervade  the  whole  house.  They  were  become,  for  the  country, 
truly  rich  women ;  but,  from  force  of  habit,  they  kept  basting 
and  stitching  and  pressing  until  their  goose  grew  too  heavy  for 
them.  Then,  from  being  the  two  tailoresses  who  worked  about 
the  town,  they  passed  into  the  two  cheerful  old  sisters,  whose 
serene  latter  years  and  calm  end  were  a  rest  and  a  lesson  to  their 
weary  neighbors. 

Very  faithful  to  each  other  in  their  marriage  relations  were 
these  ancient  men  and  women.  They  were  given  neither  to 
sentiment  nor  demonstration.  The  women  promised  to  honor 


NEIGHBORS.  161 

and  obey  their  husbands;  and  they  did  honor  and  obey  them, 
not  with  weak  servility  but  with  trust  and  willingness.  The 
twain  were  truly  yoked  together  to  bear  life's  burdens;  and, 
working  side  by  side,  year  after  year,  they  grew  to  be  most 
helpful  and  needful  and  dear  to  each  other.  Theirs  may  not 
have  been  the  highest  type  of  marriage,  but  such  as  it  was  it 
made  each  a  necessity  to  the  other,  and  whatever  it  lacked  in 
grace  and  beauty  it  made  up  in  truth  and  stability.  If  there 
was  in  it  any  actual  or  implied  degradation  of  woman,  this  was 
shown  in  the  preference  of  sons  over  daughters  in  the  disposition 
of  their  small  estates.  The  thrift  and  "  fixing  out"  of  the  latter 
were  thought  to  be  sufficient  for  them,  and  the  farm  with  its 
belongings  was  given  to  the  sons.  As  a  subject  of  contemplation, 
as  a  Sabbath  picture  divorced  from  toil,  the  pastoral,  patriarchal 
life  of  one  of  these  ancient  families  has  a  Biblical  aspect, — some- 
thing of  the  sweetness  and  simplicity  of  those  historical  house- 
holds of  Abraham  and  Isaac  and  Jacob.  It  was  the  life  of  a 
race  of  strong-minded,  heroic,  Christian  laborers,  who,  from  a 
substratum  of  mental,  moral,  and  religious  strength,  sent  forth 
a  stream  of  migration  as  potent  as  the  rivers  which  take  their 
rise  from  the  granite  rock  of  their  farms.  If  the  women  had 
been  put  forward  forty  years,  many  of  them  would  have  lost  what 
now  seem  their  peculiarities,  and  with  them  their  chief  charm, 
under  the  weight  of  what  we  call  our  superior  civilization.  But 
there  was  a  certain  class,  small  in  number  as  it  always  is,  whom 
no  time  nor  circumstance  could  have  spoiled.  They  were  noble 
women, — women  full  of  all  manner  of  well-doing ;  fair  to  look 


162  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

upon,  with  the  beatitudes  stamped  upon  their  features  as  upon 
the  pages  of  a  written  book ;  women  who,  walking  in  their 
humble  condition,  meek  and  lowly,  came  to  be  looked  upon  as 
in  a  measure  sanctified,  and  were  called  "mothers  in  Israel." 
Their  faces,  set  heavenward,  cling  to  memory  like  the  portraits 
of  painted  madonnas. 

Other  women  there  were,  more  worldly  wise,  under  whose 
cunning  hands  the  plainer  women  of  the  neighborhood  were  as 
potter's  clay, — my  grandmother  was  of  such, — sensible,  handsome 
women,  whom  no  measure  of  labor  could  belittle, — full  of  mag- 
netism and  power  and  wide  influence. 

The  stories  of  many  of  these  ancient  home-workers,  written 
out,  would  be  so  many  leaves  from  that  pioneer,  formative  life 
which  so  embellishes  and  enriches  the  early  history  of  New 
England.  They  were  home  missionaries,  who  gave  to  their 
neighbors  their  unsalaried  labor,  and  to  posterity  the  fruits  of 
their  wide-sown  humanities  and  Christian  graces.  I  have  seen 
a  whole  village  uplifted  by  the  superior  nature  of  a  single,  grand, 
thinking,  faithful,  Christian  woman.  She  was  the  wife  of  a 
poorly-paid  country  minister.  Her  home  was  meagre,  but  her 
love  of  beauty  great.  She  was  not  therefore  poor,  for  what  the 
country  could  give  to  any  woman  it  gave  to  her.  Her  field 
seemed  narrow,  for  her  ability  was  large  ;  but  if  her  standard 
of  living  overreached  that  of  her  neighbors,  her  example  stimu- 
lated their  children  to  higher  effort.  Her  mission  was  peculiar. 
Analyzed,  its  integral  parts  were  small,  in  its  aggregate  not 
greatly  recognized  at  the  time,  afterwards  felt.  The  life  of  this 


NEIGHBORS.  163 

well-poised  woman,  wide  in  creative  power  but  narrow-gauged 
by  circumstance,  in  aspect  bare,  in  actual  experience  full  of  the 
sadness  of  suppression,  went  day  by  day  into  the  children  about 
her,  and  that  scope  which  was  denied  to  herself  she  helped  to 
give  through  them  to  their  posterity. 

She  was  neither  stranded  nor  martyred.  It  was  her  vocation 
that,  because  of  the  nobility  of  her  nature,  she  should  shape 
those  who  copied  after  her.  It  was  her  lot  that  the  self-sacrifice 
which  was  engrafted  upon  her  other  virtues  should  give  to  her 
life  a  pensive  beauty ;  that  she  should  better  others  by  a  certain 
impoverishment  of  self.  What  she  longed  for  and  got  not,  guided 
by  her,  others  found.  Her  glory  was  that  her  true  being  was 
not  bound  by  circumstance.  She  was  not  simply  a  village  woman, 
she  was  a  citizen  of  the  world,  for  in  giving  wider  sphere  •  to 
others,  she  was  only  committing  to  them  that  part  of  her  higher 
life  most  worthy  to  be  developed  and  remembered. 


SUNDAY. 


DEAR,  delicious,  bygone  country  Sabbaths,  how  out  of  harmony 
bustle  and  striving  seemed  with  your  days !  A  woman  minding 
her  dairy  or  a  farmer  storing  his  hay  made  a  scandal,  and  a  certain 
decorous  dignity  was  given  to  necessary  labor.  How  the  aspect  of 
the  landscape  changed  with  the  ending  of  the  week's  tasks  !  In- 
dividual life  tells  in  the  country.  Farmers  digging  in  their 
fields,  dairywomen  busy  before  their  doors,  loitering  children, 

22 


166  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

working  oxen,  all  motions  begotten  of  labor  are  greatly  missed 
when  withdrawn.  The  stillness  of  the  Sabbath  at  my  grand- 
father's was  almost  oppressive.  Not  a  worker  was  to  be  seen, 
hardly  a  loiterer,  only  the  silent  processes  of  nature  went  on 
in  the  deserted  fields.  There  was  something  sublime  in  this 
universal  ovation  of  quiet  to  the  sacredness  of  the  day,  in  this 
giving  to  the  Sabbath  that  full  possession  of  rest  ordained  for 
it  in  its  old  creation.  It  was  the  instinct  of  a  primitive  and 
pure  devotion,  the  spiritual  expression  of  a  people  who  knew  of 
no  compromise  with  duty.  The  keeping  of  the  Lord's  day  meant 
with  them  a  giving  up  of  all  work-day  pursuits.  The  thoughts 
of  many  of  them  may  have  run  in  profane  channels,  but  if  so 
they  gave  no  outward  sign.  If  they  forecasted  to  themselves 
plans  for  the  coming  week,  they  told  not  of  it,  and  the  most 
eager  worker  of  them  all  fell  readily  into  the  subdued  spirit 
of  the  day. 

The  farmers  used  to  sit  much  by  the  windows  of  their  living- 
rooms  and  look  complacently  over  their  fields.  No  wonder  they 
loved  their  lands,  for  these  had  given  back,  for  yearly  care  and 
toil,  an  hundred-fold  in  health  and  delight.  I  seem  to  see  the 
old  miller,  ready  for  meeting,  lounging  in  a  rush-bottomed  chair 
outside  his  little  red  cottage  under  the  hill.  The  mill  has  stopped 
its  clatter.  Molly  loiters  with  her  pitcher  at  the  spring,  and 
the  gray  old  house-dog  lies  on  the  door-stone  snapping  at  flies 
in  the  sunshine.  The  minutest  feature  of  that  Sunday  morning 
picture  comes  back  to  me  :  the  lazy  drone  of  the  bees  about 
the  hive  under  the  cherry-tree;  the  row  of  sunflowers  close  by 


SUNDAY. 


167 


the  garden-fence,  tilting  their  faces  up  to  the  sun;  the  garden 
itself,  full  of.  savory  herbs;  and,  above  all,  the  trim,  rotund 
miller,  his  ruddy  face  set  off  by  a  broad  collar,  and  his  meeting- 
suit  untarnished  by  meal  or  flour.  He  was  always  waiting  there 
every  sunny  Sabbath  morning,  so  that  he  became  a  permanent 
feature  of  the  landscape  as  seen  from  my  grand- 
father's porch-door.  The  unhewn  flat  stone  step 
of  that  door  was  a  cheerful  place.  Close 
by  it  were  the  cucumber-bed,  the  dairy- 
bench,  and  the  beehives.  No  pans  were 
put  out  to  scald  on  Sunday,  the  unpicked 
cucumbers  grew  apace,  and  the  bees  rev- 
elled in  blossoms.  It  was  the  brightest, 
homeliest,  rankest  spot  about  the  house. 
A  farm-house  back-door  is  a  para- 
dise for  weeds,  and  there  is  beauty  in 
all  these  unbidden  growths  of  the  rank 
soil.  They  are  overburdened  with  a  wild 
scent,  dense  of  foliage,  deep  of  color,  profuse 
of  blossom,  and  prolific  of  seed.  They  locate  them- 
selves humbly  and  have  few  friends ;  but  hardly  one  of  them  is 
without  its  use,  and  none  of  them  would  be  unmissed  from 
back-door  vegetation.  Here  grew  the  unctuous  cheeses  of  school 
repute;  the  beggarly  plantain,  close  up  to  the  steps,  good  for 
woodland  poisons ;  edible  dock  and  mustard,  and  many  meaner 
weeds,  redeemed  by  their  riotous  rankness.  They  were  not 
worthless,  for  out  from  them  came  healing  and  food  and  dyes. 


168  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

They  were  not  mean,  for  they  were  an  outcropping  of  the  force 
of  the  earth,  and  so  were  an  eloquent  miracle  of  the  life  of  the 
year. 

The  miller's  Sunday  suit  cost  much  effort,  from  the  first 
clipping  of  the  wool  of  which  it  was  made  to  the  final  handling 
of  it  by  Lucy  and  Hester,  the  two  tailoresses,  who  measured 
and  stitched  and  pressed  at  the  rate  of  two  shillings  per  day. 
It  did  not  fit  well,  but  for  wear  and  tear  it  was  unsurpassed; 
and  its  owner  had  the  consciousness  that  it  had  been  honestly 
paid  for,  and  would  not  have  for  a  long  time  to  be  renewed.  The 
broad  collars  of  the  men  were  made  of  homespun  linen,  their 
boots  were  clumsy,  their  hands  coarse  and  distorted  by  labor; 
but  they  were  sovereigns  of  the  soil ;  strong,  brave,  honest 
men. 

The  dress  of  the  better-conditioned  class  of  women  was  much 
finer.  Many  of  them  owned  rich  satins  and  brocades.  This 
outlay  was,  however,  only  for  once  or  twice  in  a  lifetime,  and 
the  heirlooms  of  imported  stuffs  which  have  come  down  from 
my  grandmother  were,  without  doubt,  her  show-dresses  for 
many  years.  There  was  something  sweet  in  this  exalting  by 
fine  apparel  of  a  mother  of  a  household,  in  this  hinting  of  vanity 
in  these  simple  women,  who  would  gladly  have  bought  and  worn 
the  silken  fabrics  which  they  could  not  simulate  in  their  own 
webs. 

Behold  the  stately  pomp  of  my  grandmother's  church-going. 
Jonathan  brings  the  two-wheeled  chaise  to  the  front  door,  and 
out  from  the  "  spare  room"  comes  a  shimmer  of  black  satin  and 


SUNDA  Y.  169 

luce,  and  the  figure  of  a  woman,  large,  tall,  white-haired,  fair- 
faced,  handsome,  grand  as  any  fashionable  lady  of  to-day.  In 
the  hands  which  on  the  morrow  are  to  help  to  do  the  family 
washing  she  carries  a  folded  kerchief  of  fine  quality,  a  hymn- 
book,  and  a  sprig  of  Southern- wood.  She  looks,  as  I  remember 
her,  with  no  mark  of  earthly  toil  upon  her  form  and  visage, 


like  a  quaint  old  portrait  of  a  queen  somewhere  seen.  Verily, 
what  did  this  woman  lose  by  the  cheerful  taking  up  of  life's 
allotted  burdens  ? 

Wives  and  daughters  of  the  less  well-to-do  farmers  seldom 
owned  more  than  one  "  best  gown,"  and  that  of  simple  material ; 
but  their  clean  frocks  looked  wonderfully  well,  and  the  cheeks 
of  the  lasses  were  brighter  than  any  ribbons  they  could  buy. 
They  were  pleasant  to  behold  as  they  walked  in  procession, 


170  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

every  Sunday,  to  the  meeting-house.  The  wild  country  round 
about  ran  riot  with  vegetation,  and  they  were  a  part  of  its 
brightness. 

There  was  chance  for  romance  in  those  church-bound  walks, 
and  many  a  well-to-do  young  farmer  chose  to  go  across  the 
fields  with  his  lass  rather  than  by  the  dusty  highway.  At 
meeting-time,  by  the  gate  of  almost  everv  green  lane  stood  a 

'  «/  O  J        O 

lumbering  market- wagon,  waiting  for  the  "gudewife"  and  her 
little  ones,  whilst  the  "  squire"  and  the  doctor  passed  by  in 
pretentious  chaise.  The  highway  was  thronged  with  eager  wor- 
shippers,—  fathers  and  mothers,  lads  and  lasses,  many  little 
children,  with  here  and  there  an  old  man  or  woman.  All  were 
resting,  happy,  reverent.  When  the  crowd  had  reached  the 
meeting-house,  the  women  and  children  and  young  girls  passed 
in ;  but  the  fathers  and  older  sons  lingered  around  the  porch, — 
the  former  to  exchange  greetings,  the  latter  to  stare  at  the 
blushing  maidens.  The  young  people  were  not  free  from  that 
coquetry  the  seeds  of  which  were  sown  in  Eden,  and  which  is 
as  old  as  Eve.  It  took  the  girls  a  long  time  beforehand  to  adjust 
their  simple  dress.  On  Sunday  mornings,  Molly,  the  miller's 
daughter,  used  to  plaster  water  curls  upon  her  rosy  cheeks. 
If  her  face  was  not  adorned  by  them,  she  herself  was  truly  made 
more  lovely  by  this  simple  tribute  to  the  church-door  homage 
of  her  rustic  lover. 

The  meeting-house  was  a  quaint  old  structure,  a  fair  specimen 
of  buildings  of  its  class  in  those  days.  It  had  the  hanging, 
cylindrical,  sounding-board ;  high  pulpit,  with  its  trap-door ; 


8UNDA  Y.  171 

railed  altar ;  broad  galleries ;  double  row  of  small  windows ;  and 
square  pews, — the  whole  built  of  plain,  unpolished  wood.  It  was 
not  planned  by  skilful  architects,  yet,  despite  the  ugliness  of 
this  old  meeting-house,  there  was  about  it  a  kind  of  solemn 
grandeur.  It  was  lofty  and  roomy,  and  had  the  venerableness 
which  long  use  gives  to  any  structure.  Cobwebs  hung  in  its 
out-of-the-way  corners  ;  age  had  richly  stained  the  rude  carvings 
of  its  useless  sounding-board ;  and  curiously-twisted  veins  and 
knots  had  come  out,  hr  long  years,  all  over  the  panels  of  its 
galleries.  There  is  something  pathetic  in  this  creeping  out  of 
the  veins  and  fibres  of  ancient  wood — as  if  they  were  the  soul 
of  it — to  meet  the  destroying  touch  of  time.  Rare  also  is  the 
aroma  of  these  dying  woods,  breathing  out  from  such  as  are 
mellow  and  brown  and  streaked  with  age ;  found  only  in  old, 
unpainted  buildings. 

On  summer  days,  through  the  open  windows  of  this  ancient 
church  came  resinous  breezes  from  the  pine  wood  beyond  it, 
sunshine,  and  the  sounds  of  busy,  ripening,  summer  life.  It 
was  filled  also  with  a  reverent  spirit  of  worship,  and  by  them 
all  it  was  glorified  into  a  solemn  and  goodly  temple.  The 
coming  up  of  the  minister's  white  head  from  the  trap-door, 
the  nasal  twang  of  the  long-queued  deacon  dictating  to  his 
choir,  the  contortions  of  the  fiddler,  were  all  accepted  as  a 
part  of  the  service,  and  the  people  were  as  unconscious  of 
any  element  of  the  grotesque  in  their  worship  as  they  were 
rich  in  faith  and  divine  presence.  The  musical  directors  of 
ancient  choirs  might  not  have  been  good  singers,  but  they 


172  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

i 

were  most  devout  choral  worshippers  of  the  Lord  on  the 
Lord's  Day.  Ancient  meeting-houses  had  no  chimneys,  and 
the  tiny  foot-stoves  of  the  women  could  not  keep  their  bodies 
warm  in  winter.  One  can  but  think  that  perhaps  the  sturdi- 
ness  of  these  ancient  dames  was  in  some  measure  due  to  the 
fact  that  the  weakly  ones  were,  in  early  life,  winnowed  out 
by  exposure  to  such  hardy  customs. 

My  grandfather's  old  meeting-house  on  summer  days  was  a 
picture-gallery,  letting  in  rare  landscapes  through  its  windows. 
The  meanest  objects  framed  in  these,  and  fixed  by  them  upon 
a  background  of  sky  or  verdure,  became  studies  to  tired,  curious 
children,  who  let  nothing  pass  by  the  doors  unnoticed  upon  the 
visible  highway.  The  stay-at-homes  in  the  few  neighboring 
houses  were  eagerly  watched,  and  all  the  details  of  the  houses 
themselves  accurately  scanned  by  them.  They  grew  wise  as 
to  the  habits  and  haunts  of  meeting-house  spiders  and  bugs, 
and  noted  every  bird-nested  tree  which  could  be  seen  from  the 
pews.  Every  object  within  range  of  vision  they  knew  well  by 
sight.  Nothing  escaped  them  but  the  doctrines  of  the  minister's 
long  discourses. 

What  country-bred  person  will  not  recall  with  pleasure  such 
unwitting  Sunday  studies  of  art,  when  he  or  she  learned  aerial 
perspective  through  the  upper  windows  of  a  village  church,  and 
the  best  style  of  lawn-gardening  from  the  landscape  which 
stretched  out  from  their  lower  panes  to  the  horizon  ?  All  the 
natural  beauties  of  the  neighborhood  were  revealed  ;  many  secrets 
of  form  and  sound  and  color  were  searched  out  until,  through 


SUNDAY. 


173 


these  primary  dealings  with  nature,  a  glimpse  was  given  of  the 
fulness  and  richness  and  glory  of  the  universe. 

The  old-time  country  pastors  were  greatly  loved  and  respected 


by  their  people.  They  were  treated  with  peculiar  deference. 
They  were  accosted  with  humility  and  entertained  with  delight. 
They  were  poorly  paid,  but,  like  their  parishioners,  their  habits 
were  simple  and  wants  few ;  and  many  of  them  eked  out  their 

23 


174  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

living  by  the  use  of  land  lent  them  by  thrifty  farmers.  The 
Congregationalist  ministers  were  the  most  learned  men  of  the 
times;  generally  close  students,  rigid  in  doctrine,  stern  in  dis- 
cipline, and  given  to  long,  many-headed  sermons.  Other  de- 
nominations believed  less  in  especial  training  for  the  pulpit  and 
more  in  what  was  termed  "  a  call"  to  preach.  Laymen  left  their 
ploughs  and  became  exhorters ;  and  the  genuine  "  call"  often 
developed  rare  power  to  control  minds.  The  eloquence  and 
success  of  some  of  these  "called"  preachers  of  my  grandfather's 
neighborhood  have  passed  into  tradition.  They  showed  an  acute- 
ness  in  the  selection  and  adaptation  of  texts  which  often  proved 
the  seed  of  great  revivals.  Said  one  of  these  pastors,  venerable 
with  age,  as  he  bowed  over  the  coffin  of  an  old  patriarch,  named 
Jacob,  who-  in  the  fulness  of  a  healthy  and  honored  old  age  had 
died  suddenly  in  the  night-time,  "  And  when  Jacob  had  made 
an  end  of  commanding  his  sons,  he  gathered  up  his  feet  into 
the  bed  and  yielded  up  the  ghost,  and  was  gathered  unto  his 
people."  The  utterance,  the  attitude,  the  aspect  of  the  trembling 
old  pastor  were  perfect,  and  more  potent  than  any  sermon  upon 
this  desirable  ending  of  a  long  and  worthy  life.  At  another 
time,  leaning  over  the  pulpit,  he  pointed  to  the  shrouded  form 
of  a  strong  man,  stricken  down  by  the  wayside,  and  exclaimed, 
in  low  and  searching  accents,  "  Who  among  you  will  give  heed 
to  this  ?  Who  will  hearken  and  hear  for  the  time  to  come  ?" 
Waiting,  with  solemn  impressiveness,  answer  came  to  him  in 
the  sudden  uprising  of  every  member  of  the  congregation.  This 
inspired  old  man  was  gathered  to  his  fathers.  He  was  greatly 


SUNDAY.  175 

missed.  Even  little  children  mourned  him,  and  for  a  long  time 
the  mention  of  his  name  brought  tears. 

In  those  days  seldom  was  an  aged  minister  cast  off  by  his 
people  because  of  his  years.  He  was  more  apt  to  be  endeared 
to  them  by  his  infirmities,  and  his  speech  to  grow  weighty  with 
them  in  proportion  to  his  past  work  and  experience.  The  defer- 
ence paid  to  him,  especially  by  the  young,  was  extreme.  His 
learning,  his  freedom  from  coarser  toil,  his  better  attire,  exalted 
the  minister's  vocation  at  any  time  of  life ;  and  when  to  the 
superiority  of  it  was  added  the  venerableness  of  years,  he  became 
to  them  a  true  patriarch ;  like  the  priests  of  old,  as  one  ordained 
of  God  and  not  of  men. 

My  grandfather's  minister,  when  I  used  to  visit  the  farm,  was 
a  trembling  old  man,  with  broken  voice ;  but  the  thought  of  his 
dismissal  never  entered  the  mind  of  one  of  his  hearers,  and  to 
talk  of  his  death  as  a  near  probability  cut  their  hearts  as  a 
personal  bereavement.  Gray-haired  women  spoke  of  him  as 
belonging  to  a  past  generation.  He  had  buried  their  parents, 
had  given  them  in  marriage,  and  brought  his  wisdom  to  bear 
upon  the  good  and  evil  experiences  of  their  after-life.  He  had 
been  an  eloquent  man,  and  the  inspiration  of  his  speech  had 
not  yet  quite  left  him.  Indeed,  there  could  be  no  eloquence 
more  effectual  than  the  simple  appeals  which  came  from  the  pious 
hearts  and  truthful  lips  of  such  well-tried  pastors.  From  living 
so  long  with  one  people,  they  grew  into  their  lives.  There  could 
be  no  joy  or  sorrow  in  the  parish  in  which  the  beloved  pastor 
was  not  called  to  share.  The  average  sermons  of  those  days, 


176  NEW  ENGLAND   BYGONES. 

measured  by  rules  of  rhetoric,  might,  many  of  them,  seem  bare ; 
but  most  of  them  were  strong  in  logic,  and  they  were  all  full 
of  heart  and  truth,  and  so  of  power. 

At  noon,  between  Sunday  services,  the  people  scattered  ;  in 
winter,  with  their  lunch-baskets,  amongst  the  nearest  farm- 
houses ;  in  summer  the  mothers,  with  their  little  ones,  did  the 
same,  whilst  the  sturdy  farmers  lolled  on  the  green.  Lads  and 
lasses  strolled  into  the  fields,  where  lovers  sat  down  under  the 
maples  and  oaks,  or  the  willows  by  the  brook-side.  Children 
and  sober  maidens,  like  Hannah,  were  apt  to  turn  into  the 
churchyard.  Many  of  the  meeting-goers  had  some  precious 
spot  in  that  earth,  and  they  never  seemed  to  tire  of  reading  the 
legends  on  the  unpretending  stones. 

After  the  hour's  nooning  came  the  afternoon's  service,  just 
as  long  and  strong  in  doctrine  as  that  of  the  morning,  and  woe 
betide  the  uneasy  youngster  or  dozing  farmer  upon  whom  the 
tithingman's  watchful  eye  might  fall.  Sweet  were  the  homeward 
walks,  when  lovers  loitered  and  parents  grew  less  austere.  The 
rest  of  the  day  was  wellnigh  past,  but  its  peace  lingered.  Its 
waning  light  fell  with  a  soft  glow  upon  fields  and  highway  and 
home-bound  worshippers.  The  latter,  for  a  few  transient  hours 
freed  alike  from  the  cares  which  were  past  and  the  cares  which 
were  to  come,  grew  kindly  affectionate  one  towards  another. 
This  new-born  life  was  decorous  and  sweet.  Children  joined 
one  another ;  young  hearts  went  out  to  meet  young  hearts  ;  and, 
at  the  end  of  every  green  lane,  neighbors  parted  with  hand- 
shakes and  good  wishes.  While  this  pleasant  pageant  was  pass- 


SUNDAY. 


177 


ing  from  the  highway,  the  herds  came  up  from  the  pastures. 
The  duties  of  the  new  week  crowded  up  to  the  twilight  of 
the  old  Sabbath,  and  shortly  the  highway  was  deserted  and 
silent. 


HE  flavors  of  fruits  which  you  have 
eaten  in  childhood  strangely  cling  to 
you.  You  taste  them  in  memory,  and 
your  mouth  literally  waters  for  them. 
You  never  get  such  apples  now  as  Bill 
and  Joe  used  to  carry  to  the  village 
school.  They  came,  most  likely,  from 
a  hoard  in  the  hay-mow ;  if  so,  they 
were  stolen  from  the  best  trees  of 
some  farmer's  orchard.  Happy  the  boy 
or  girl  who  innocently  ate  of  the  mellowed 
apples  of  such  a  hoard,  which  had  been  forced  into  ripening  in 
their  nest  of  dried  grass.  Their  flavors  were  shut  in  by  darkness, 
and  their  scents  and  tints,  which  would  have  exhaled  in  daylight, 
passed  permanently  into  them.  Their  pulp  melted  and  trickled 
through  the  fingers  of  eaters,  with  a  deep  color  and  a  far-reaching 


OLD    TREES.  179 

odor.      Brought  out  from  the  pockets  of  boys   and  girls,  they 
were  as  bright  and  fresh  as  the  eyes  which  longed  for  them. 

Straying  through  a  field  or  pasture  in  childhood,  you  have 
come  upon  a  wild  tree  loaded  with  fruit,  of  which  you  have 
plucked  and  eaten.  You  were  hardy  and  hungry,  and  they 
seemed  to  you  the  best  apples  you  had  ever  tasted.  Passing 
that  way  in  after-years,  you  call  to  mind  this  fruit's  high  relish , 
and  are  curious  to  try  it  again.  You  find  the  tree,  half  rotten, 
but  its  live  limbs  still  bearing.  You  search  in  vain  for  apples 
like  the  old  ones.  You  fling  them  from  you  by  the  dozens,  for 
you  find  them  all,  whether  on  the  tree  or  on  the  sod,  sour  and 
knotty  and  mean.  You  wonder  whether  the  fine  flavor  has  gone 
out  of  the  apple  with  the  decay  of  the  tree,  or  a  keen  appre- 
ciation has  gone  out  of  you.  No  matter  which ;  once  you  liked 
it,  and  the  tradition  will  always  be  a  real  and  pleasant  thing. 
Fruit  tastes  better  picked  up  from  a  sod.  A  yellow  apple  bedded 
in  a  tuft  of  green  grass,  besprinkled  with  dew,  and  crisp  with 
early  ripeness,  palatable  as  you  snatch  it,  may  be  a  crabbed  thing 
when  bought  from  a  huckster's  stall.  I  used  to  eat  freely  of 
sweets  and  sours  in  my  grandfather's  orchard,  and  daily  made 
its  round,  thrusting  aside  the  grass  for  windfalls,  puckering  my 
mouth  with  acrid  juices,  flinging  clubs  and  stones  at  favorite 
branches,  and  filling  my  pocket  with  fresh-fallen  fruits.  Very 
few  of  its  apples  were  positively  uneatable.  This  one  might  set 
your  teeth  on  edge,  or  make  your  throat  tingle,  but  you  were 
likely,  the  very  next  time  you  passed  the  tree  that  bore  it,  to 
snatch  at  the  same  branch  for  the  sake  of  the  smart.  Apples 


180  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

which,  when  carried  into  the  house  and  left  lying  about  for  a 
day  or  two,  were  thrown  away  as  useless  for  cooking,  picked 
freshly  fallen  from  the  earth  had  a  keen,  spicy  tang,  pleasant  if 
sparsely  taken. 

There  is  hardly  any  wild  apple  so  worthless  than  in  it  does  not 
lurk  a  latent  sweetness,  waiting  to  be  let  loose  by  some  condition 
of  time  or  place,  a  racy  and  transient  flavor  to  be  caught  on  the 
wing.  A  toothmark  sufficed  for  some  of  my  grandfather's  apples, 
for  others  a  single  mouthful ;  many  were  to  be  half  eaten, — 
wormy  windfalls,  for  instance,  and  the  fruits  of  certain  trees  with 
sodden,  watery  cores.  Others,  mild  and  fine-grained,  were 
relishable  close  up  to  the  hulls.  A  few,  compact  with  malic- 
worth,  seemed  utterly  to  dissolve.  Such  fruit  was  to  be  found 
here  and  there  in  all  old  orchards,  the  delight  of  children,  and 
oddly  named  by  farmers'  wives,  pudding-sweets,  long-noses,  red- 
cheeks,  and  the  like;  wild  apples,  not  large,  but  well-shaped, 
finely  colored,  and  of  good  grain.  Paths  went  straight  from  the 
back-doors  to  these  trees,  and  the  grass  under  them  was  matted 
and  tangled.  Trails  were  apt  to  lead  from  them  to  gaps  in  the 
walls,  and  much  of  their  plumpest  fruitage  found  its  way  into 
the  hoards  of  thieving  boys.  The  rich  flavor  of  them  all  wa.s 
due  to  their  utter  freshness.  The  true  aroma  of  any  fruit  comes 
from  the  life  of  it, — life  drawn  from  the  sunshine,  the  showers, 
the  air,  and  soil  of  its  own  locality.  When  you  pluck  it  it  begins 
to  die.  It  follows,  then,  that  the  products  of  your  own  soil  give 
to  you  alone  their  true  ownership,  and  the  finest  reward  of  your 
tillage  is  that  to  you  only  can  they  offer  their  unimpaired  juices. 


OLD    TREES.  181 

I  knew  a  tree  once — old  when  I  first  saw  it,  dead  now — which 
stood  in  an  angle  of  a  country  garden.  Close  in  the  corner  was 
a  rhubarb-root,  and  along  the  fence  a  row  of  currant-bushes  ; 
rank  growths  all  of  them,  but  good  hiding-places  for  windfalls. 
Never  was  a  tree  so  beset  and  persecuted  as  this.  Its  higher 
branches  always  hung  full  of  forked  sticks;  the  hard-trodden 
sod  under  it  was  thick  with  leaves,  and  the  currant-bushes  and 
rhubarb-root  were  trampled  and  torn.  Three  or  four  of  its 
huge  branches  stretched  over  the  fence,  and  the  smart-weed 
bed  underneath  them  was  always  hunted  by  eager  children. 
Long  poles  were  lying  about  outside,  which,  after  all  the  apples 
had  been  knocked  from  these  overhanging  branches,  were  slyly 
thrust  under  the  fence  for  more,  and  this  was  called  "  hooking" 
by  the  young  pilferers.  This  apple-tree  made  early  risers  of 
the  children  of  the  house  which  owned  it;  and  after  a  storm 
sharp  was  the  contest  for  the  gathering  of  its  windfalls.  It 
had  a  slow  decay,  a  natural  kind  of  ageing,  and  left  off  bearing 
limb  by  limb.  The  sparser  its  fruit  was  the  more  precious  it 
grew,  and  the  last  few  apples  of  the  season  were  always  the 
best  esteemed  of  all.  They  were  truly  wonderful  apples, — 
piquant  things,  —  small,  bright  yellow  without,  mottled  with 
brown-edged,  crimson  spots ;  snow  white  and  sparkling  within ; 
tasting  best  when  knocked  out,  late  in  autumn,  from  the  fork 
of  some  high-up  branch.  It  was  only  a  great,  wild  apple-tree, 
but  it  grew  into  the  life  of  the  house,  and  the  whole  summer 
long  gave  to  it  a  surprising  measure  of  beauty  and  comfort. 
Its  blossoms  were  of  pink  and  white,  the  prettiest  of  their  kind, 


182  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

and  they  perfumed  a  whole  village.  The  setting  of  its  fruits 
was  the  delight  of  all  the  neighbors'  children,  and  the  giving 
of  them,  when  ripened,  became  a  hospitality.  They  were  thick 
and  beautiful  amongst  the  green  leaves,  and  the  underlying  sod, 
enriched  by  them,  was  the  best-beloved  spot  of  the  whole  garden. 
Ungrafted  trees  have  a  riotous  way  of  growing,  making  up 
in  size  what  they  lack  in  fruitage :  and  the  thinnest-bearing 

«/  o 

of  them,  when  in  blossom,  perfumes  the  air  as  sweetly  as  the 
best.  The  trees  in  my  grandfather's  orchard  which  bore  the 
meanest  fruit  seemed  to  have  the  most  and  brightest  blossoms, 
and  for  a  few  days  were  the  glory  of  the  landscape.  You  can 
never  forget  the  scent  of  apple-blossoms;  nor,  when  once  seen, 
the  beauty  which  is  given  to  plain  things  by  them.  An  old 
apple-orchard  has  a  pathetic  interest.  Its  trees  decay  slowly, 
lingering  after  those  who  planted  them,  with  gnarled  trunks 
and  distorted  limbs,  keeping  watch  over  the  ruins  of  deserted 
homesteads.  If  you  see  a  few,  solitary,  half-dead  apple-trees  in 
a  field,  or  stumps  of  trees  buried  in  suckers,  near  them  you  will 
be  quite  sure  to  find  a  cellar, — filled  with  stones  and  bricks  and 
tangled  wild-growth, — the  site  of  an  ancient  home.  You  may 
find  these  dying  old  trees  overhanging  the  walls  of  grass-grown 
country  highways.  If  you  will  dislodge  their  tumbled  fruit  from 
between  the  stones,  you  will  often  be  well  repaid  by  their  wild 
and  racy  flavor.  Even  if  you  cannot  eat  them,  they  are  pleas- 
ant to  look  upon ;  and  the  tree  which,  in  all  lands,  best  holds 
its  own,  which  seems  nearest  to  you,  is  the  tree  which  has  always 
been-  a  generous  giver  to  you,  the  homely,  grateful,  apple-tree. 


OLD    TREES.  183 

Best  of  all  orchards,  my  grandfather's,  full  of  great  trees, 
waxing  old  and  weak ;  with  their  trunks  rotted,  their  barks 
shaggy,  their  limbs  all  dead  at  the  ends.  Dear  old  orchard, 
with  your  smooth  turf,  your  many  fierce-fruited  trees,  your  few 
but  sufficient  ones  bearing  apples  of  rare  worth !  Going  back 
in  memory  to  your  gathering,  I  walk  straight  to  the  sweet  trees 
and  the  sour  trees  of  your  best  repute.  I  hear  the  thud  of 
your  brimful  carts,  pouring  their  loads  into  the  press,  and  see 
busy  hands  heaping  up  the  fallen  fruit.  The  gifts,  that  the 
summer  suns  and  winds  and  rains  have  given  to  you,  lie  beautiful 
upon  the  earth,  in  balls  of  crimson  and  green  and  gold.  Your 
yearly  mission  is  over,  and  the  air  is  fragrant  with  the  life  that  has 
passed  into  them  and  out  of  you,  with  the  growing  and  ripening 
of  the  year.  I  forget, — the  thing  was  and  is  not;  the  harvest 
was  bountiful,  and  was  gathered  in ;  the  trees  waxed  old  and  died. 

On  the  side  of  the  orchard  nearest  the  house  a  row  of  later- 
planted  trees  had  been  grafted,  but  with  so  little  care  as  to  stock 
that  their  fruits  were  no  better  than  cross-breeds,  with  a  strong 
leaning  to  native  wildness.  Moreover,  the  trees  themselves,  too 
old  for  the  process,  did  not  take  to  it.  They  were  unhealthy  and 
tricky  of  bearing,  and  seemed  to  be  trying  to  thrust  off  their 
superadded  branches.  Many  of  the  oldest  trees  were  rotten  to 
the  core,  yet  still  persisted  in  bringing  to  the  orchard  their  yearly 
gift  of  leafage,  flower,  and  fruit.  After  a  strong  wind  it  was 
always  feared  that  one  or  more  of  them  would  be  found  prostrate 
upon  the  ground.  The  fall  of  one  sent  a  thrill  of  sorrow  through 
the  household.  It  was  sure  to  have  been  endeared  by  some  tender 


184  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

association,  had  been  marked  by  a  name,  and  was  not  lightly 
to  be  parted  with.  It  was  pitiful  to  look  at  its  branches,  heaped 
and  crushed,  covered  with  their  last  greenness ;  its  trunk  jagged 
and  rotten ;  a  worthless  wreck  to  be  put  out  of  sight. 

The  wild  pear  was  a  hard,  uneatable  thing,  properly  called 
choke-pear.  Unlike  the  apple,  it  never  surprised  you  by  any 
palatable  variations,  and,  save  that  the  housewives  sometimes 
stewed  it  into  a  tolerable  preserve,  it  was  of  little  use. 

The  garden  cherries  of  ancient  homesteads  were  less  untamed, 
more  serviceable  than  the  pears.  Almost  every  garden  held 
two  or  three  trees,  the  fruit  of  which  was  much  esteemed  for 
cookery.  This  cherry  Was  round,  plump,  richly  red,  and  thor- 
oughly relishable  when  plucked  from  the  sunny  side  of  a  well- 
tended  tree.  A  profuse  bearer,  this  tree,  with  its  high  contrast 
of  fruit  and  glossy,  dark-green  leaves,  was  an  ornamental  thing, 
often  standing  in  the  front  yard  of  the  house.  It  was  apt  to 
straggle  in  its  growth  and  get  shaggy  as  to  its  bark,  but  was 
pleasant  to  look  upon  from  its  white  blossoming  until  it  was 
stripped  by  the  frost.  It  was  an  early  bloomer,  thrusting  out 
its  snow-white  petals  before  its  leaf-buds  had  burst  open,  almost 
the  first  floral  gift  of  spring  to  the  quickening  life  of  the  garden. 
All  cherry-blossoms  have  an  untamed  look  and  scent,  as  if  in 
them  the  richness  and  flavor  which  goes  into  later  flowers  had 
gotten  snow-bound.  They  are  very  dainty  ;  they  come  suddenly, 
and  flutter  and  fall  and  melt  away,  as  if  they  were  really  born 
out  of  frost-work.  Little  children  used  to  carry  sprays  of  them 
to  school,  and  later  they  beset  the  trees  for  fruit,  fighting  with 


OLD    TREES.  185 

the  birds  for  their  short-lived  harvest.  I  remember  two  great, 
scraggy,  old  trees,  hard  to  climb,  whose  close-set  branches  nipped 
like  a  vice,  but  which  held,  quite  up  in  the  sky,  fruit  full  of 
imprisoned  sunshine.  For  several  weeks,  in  cherry-time,  they 
were  noisy  trees.  There  were  always  two  or  three  children 
wedged  between  their  forked  branches,  who  chattered  and  ate 
and  kept  a  flutter  amongst  the  flocking  birds. 

Half-way  between  the  house  and  woodland  was  a  wild  cherry- 
tree,  which  bore  blossom  and  fruit  with  a  riotous  profuseness. 
The  wild  cherry  was  a  savage  of  its  kind.  This  one  rose  straight 
as  an  arrow  from  a  heap  of  rocks ;  a  tall,  handsome  tree.  The 
rocks  were  matted  with  sumachs  and  blackberry-bushes,  and 
the  place  was  said  to  be  snaky ;  yet  it  was  lovely  with  its  tree 
and  shrubbery  and  white  flowers,  and  was  always  strewn,  in  fruit- 
time,  with  broken  twigs  and  forked  sticks.  The  wild  cherry 
is  a  prettier  tree  every  way  than  the  tame  red.  It  is  round- 
trunked,  pyramidal,  glossy-barked,  with  breezy,  profuse,  white 
blossoms  and  small  black,  graceful,  clustered  fruit,  and  it  binds 
up  in  its  fibres  rare,  healing  juices.  Black-cherry  trees  often 
stand  thick  along  old  walls,  unnoted  by  the  farmer  until  quite 
grown.  They  give  to  the  rocks  in  spring  a  beauty  which  the 
sumach,  with  its  crimson  leaves,  gives  in  autumn ;  for  a  few  days 
they  outline  a  field  with  their  pure  white,  pendulous  blossoms. 
Their  fruit  looks  toothsome,  but  is  pungent  and  acrid ;  yet,  like 
the  wild  apple,  when  plucked  from  the  sunny  side  of  a  tree,  in 
field  or  pasture,  it  would  not  fail  there  to  please  you.  Nobody 
ever  plants  wild  cherry-trees,  but  they  spring  up  freely  in  out- 


186  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

of-tlie-way  places.  Close  by  fences  and  in  rock-heaps,  they  easily 
escape  hostile  ploughs,  and  thrust  themselves  picturesquely  out 
of  the"  rubbish  of  a  field  into  the  features  of  a  landscape.  They 
are  hardier  and  less  liable  to  disease  than  the  garden  species,  and 
the  balsam  which  runs  in  their  veins  is  not  of  more  worth  than 
are  their  varied  aspects  of  beauty. 

Plums  were  once  raised  with  little  care  in  extreme  New 
England.  Peaches  were  also  an  infrequent  growth.  Black  gum 
has  nearly  killed  'Ou1>  the  former ;  severe  winters  the  latter. 
Like  all  later-maturing  fruits,  ripened  under  the  slow  processes 
of  a  New  England  summer,  the  plums  were  pulpy,  fine-grained, 
and  delicious.  They  are  to  be  regretted,  as  the  one  thing  wrhich, 
in  this  bleak  climate,  simulated  a  tropical  fervor.  My  grand- 
father's half  a  dozen  plum-trees,  when  last  seen,  were  black, 
blighted  and  unsightly;  and  the  single  peach-tree  had  dwindled 
down  to  suckers,  sprung  from  the  past  winter's  blight. 

But  after  all  the  tree  which  has  best  stood  wear  and  tear, 
which  presents  itself  to  me,  seeking  for  it,  with  the  most  familiar 
aspect,  is  the  butternut-tree  by  the -well.  No  matter  how  rotten 
its  core  is,  how  ragged  its  branches,  I  love  its  old  age  even  better 
than  I  did  its  youth.  Next  to  that  my  heart  goes  out  to  the 
trees,  spared  by  the  woodman's  axe,  in  the  woodland  beyond  the 
orchard.  I  saw  a  strong  man  once  crying  like  a  child,  because 
of  the  cutting  down  of  an  old  tree  upon  his  lawn.  He  said  all 
his  children  had  played  under  it,  and  it  was  a  part  of  his  life. 
I  felt  sorry  for  him,  for  his  grief  brought  back  to  me  the  morn- 
ing when  I  missed  my  great  maple  from  my  chamber  window. 


OLD    TREES. 


187 


and,  looking 
out,  saw  it  lying,  ma- 
jestic, but  smitten,  across 
my  summer  garden.  Of  all 
my  trees  I  loved  this  one  best.  It  had  been 
cut  down  by  mistake,  and  as  it  lay,  with  its 
leaves  withering  in  the  sunshine,  it  seemed  like 
a  murdered  thing.  It  was  lost  from  my  window ;  it  was  gone 
from  the  landscape;  it  had  been  cruelly  torn  from  the  remem- 


188  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

bered  image  of  a  dead  child, — this  speechless  yet  speaking  thing, 
which  had  grown  into  my  heart. 

Trees  have  their  social  aspect.  Many  have  been  intimately 
known  by  me ;  solitary  trees,  and  clumps  of  trees,  and  forests 
of  trees,  memorable  by  association.  How  you  love  to  recall  the 
trees  which  grew  about  your  old  homestead !  You  were  drawn 
to  them  by  little  things.  In  the  forked  branch  of  this  you 
watched  a  bird's  nest,  out  of  the  rotten  trunk  of  that  grew  a 
thrifty  fern,  here  you  perched  aloft,  there  you  swung.  In  varied 
ways  the  rugged  old  trees  catered  to  your  young  delights  and 
wants,  and  grew  beautiful  and  dear  to  you.  Trees  were  my 
childhood  companions,  constant  to  me  and  I  to  them.  I  learned 
their  tricks  of  costume  and  ways  of  growth.  I  cannot  this  day 
tell  in  what  dress  I  loved  them  best;  whether  in  the  tender 
green  of  spring,  the  deeper  colors  of  later  days,  the  crimson 
and  gold  and  russets  of  autumn,  or  the  soft  grays  of  the  dying 
year.  There  were  groups  of  trees  in  pasture  and  lowland  at 
my ,  grandfather's,  which  are  joys  of  memory,  because  of  rare 
shadings  and  colors  which  were  cast  upon  and  overlapped  into 
them  by  the  passing  of  the  seasons.  There  were  four  trees 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  rocky  pasture  whose  interlocked 
branches  were  unfolded,  like  the  pages  of  a  richly-illuminated 
book,  by  the  autumn  ripening  of  their  leaves.  Standing  by 
themselves,  they  were  the  most  prominent  things  to  be  seen, 
bright  as  flame  in  the  sunshine.  They  were  yearly  emblazoned 
upon  the  gray  pasture,  and  it  was  as  if  the  condensed  richness 
and  ripeness  of  the  year  had  poured  into  them  its  old  wine. 


OLD    TEEE8.  189 

All  woods  have  their  speech :  grim  old  woods,  tangled  and 
matted  and  solemn  and  dark;  treacherous  woods,  wet  and  mossy 
and  full  of  pitfalls ;  odorous  woods,  bright  with  ferns  and  flowers 
and  streaks  of  sunshine. 

Looking  at  painted  forests,  there  are  apt  to  come  to  me  things 
never  put  upon  canvas ;  such  as  the  sweet  odor  of  a  smoking, 
resinous  wood,  caught  at  midnight  from  a  burning  forest;  a 
subtle,  far-reaching,  never-to-be-forgotten  scent,  the  breath  of 
dying  pines.  With  the  scent  comes  also  a  little  cottage  planted 
against  a  savage  background  of  blackened  trees  and  smouldering 
sod,  a  weird  forest  night  scene,  burned  into  a  child's  imagination. 
No  country  habitation  could  seem  more  alone  than  this  house 
at  midnight,  close  by  the  highway,  in  the  heart  of  a  forest, 
dimly  disclosed  by  moonlight,  its  lamps  all  out,  its  tenants 
sleeping,  so  lonely,  so  fragile,  so  exposed,  and  yet  so  peaceful, 
so  strong,  so  safe,  respected  by  man's  humanity,  watched .  over 
by  God's  providence. 

Of  all  voices  of  the  woods  and  the  night,  the  low  wail  of 
the  whippoorwill  is  the  saddest.  It  was  a  bird  of  ill  omen  to 
farmers'  wives,  and  the  woodland  passed  into  evil  repute  because 
it  was  haunted  by  one.  Any  sound  thrust  in  a  forest  upon  the 
silence  of  night  is  positive,  and  what  would  be  unnoticed  in  the 
daytime  becomes  a  terror  or  a  support  to  the  benighted  traveller. 
The  thud  of  his  horse's  hoofs  and  the  rattle  of  his  wheels  do  not 
shut  out  the  slightest  crackle  of  twigs,  and  he  hears  many  strange 
sounds  which  he  cannot  disentangle  from  the  darkness. 

I  hear,  as  if  just  passing  it,  on  my  way  to  my  grandfather's, 


190 


NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 


in  the  heart  of  the  long  forest,  the  lapping  of  a  pond  at  night 
upon  its  shores.  The  horse  shies  at  the  waves  and  the  driftwood, 
the  wheels  grind  into  the  sand.  The  bridge  at  the  outlet  is  said 
to  be  treacherous,  and  the  outlet  itself  is  .sullen  and  dark.  In 
the  mile-away  horizon  the  moonlight  brings  out  the  one  little 
cottage  by  the  inlet,  within  a  stone's  throw  of  which  its  owner 
went  down  through  a  yawning  breathing-hole,  into  which  he 
had  driven  from  across  the  pond  one  cold  winter's  night.  My 
companion  tells  the  old  story,  and  adds  to  it  later  accidents. 
Meanwhile '  we  near  the  bridge  and  the  inlet,  which  seems  to 
yawn  to  swallow  us  in.  We  urge  the  horse  carefully,  and  he, 
with  half-human  instinct,  plants  his  feet  reluctantly  upon  the 
bridge.  It  sags  to  one  side,  and  the  water  ripples  past  the 
wheels.  We  hold  our  breaths  for  a  minute,  and  then  the  pas- 
sage is  made.  It  was  a  foolish  thing  to  do,  but  the  risk  gave 
to  me  a  remembered  rare  voice  of  a  solitary  old  wood. 


EE  the  children  as  they  used  to  come 
from  the  village  school, — a  noisy 
little  mob,  ripe  for  mischief.  A 
wagoner  drives  along.  The  boys 
swarm  upon  his  cart  like  bees, 

tangled  together  and  dangling  behind  with  scarred  and  mud- 
stained  feet.  The  farmer  either  "  whips  behind"  or  leaves  the 
struggling  mass  to  disentangle  by  a  gradual  dropping  off.  The 
children  who  were  left  stop  a  moment.  Poised,  expectant,  they 
all  stand,  until  some  foremost  fellow  plunges  his  broad  bare  feet 
into  the  hot,  soft  sand,  scoops  it  along,  and  flings  it  aloft.  Away 
they  all  rush,  with  a  whoop  and  a  hurrah,  ploughing  along  the 
road,  half  smothered  by  the  dust  they  fling  about  them. 

Nothing  could  be  more  charming  than  the  groups  of  school- 
bound  children  in  early  summer  mornings,  simply  clad,  chattering 
like  magpies,  making  the  air  ring  with  their  laughter.  Their 


192  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

prattle  was  mostly  of  flowers  and  birds ;  of  the  treasures  of  fields 
and  pastures  and  woods,  and  their  many  little  adventures  in  their 
close  dealings  with  nature.  They  were  as  hardy  and  untrained 
as  the  mullein  and  hardhack  and  wild  rose  of  the  unploughed 
roadside;  and  they  were  as  sweet  to  look  upon  as  were  the 
blossoms  of  these  weeds. 

In  summer  the  scents  of  fields  and  woods  used  to  get  into 
the  school-rooms ;  especially  of  the  ferns,  which  sprang  up  all 
along  the  stone  walls,  by  the  roadside,  and  in  the  damp,  shady 
corners  of  the  fields.  What  country-bred  child  does  not  re- 
member these  tender,  dainty  roadside  ferns  which  the  children 
used  to  stick  in  the  seams  of  their  desks,  and  into  every  available 
crack  in  the  school-house  walls  ?  Beds  of  them  grew  crisp  in 
a  field  back  of  the  school-house  in  my  grandfather's  district, 
where  the  grass  around  them  was  above  the  heads  of  the  smaller 
children.  The  man  who  owned  this  field  was  at  war  with  the 
scholars,  for  they  would  pluck  the  ferns,  and  the  way  to  these 
led  through  his  tallest  grass.  A  wild  cherry-tree  stood  in  the 
centre  of  this  field,  and  its  ragged  wall  was  covered  with  berry- 
bushes.  When  it  was  mowed  scythes  were  tripped  by  hard- 
trodden  trails,  and  the  old  farmer  was  heard  to  say  to  his  men 
one  summer  that  "  the  young  cusses"  had  cut  up  his  field  like 
a  checker-board.  He  hacked  up  the  fern-bed,  cut  down  the 
cherry-tree,  and  tore  up  all  the  wayside  berry-bushes.  But  dear 
old  Mother  Nature  outwitted  him,  and  the  next  year  the  ferns 
came  up  again  as  rank  as  ever ;  strawberries  and  wild-flowers 
grew  where  the  trees  and  bushes  had  been ;  the  eager  children 


THE  DISTRICT  SCHOOL. 


193 


made  new  trails  after  new  things,  and  crisscrossed  the  field  worse 
than  ever. 

There  was  something  delicious  to  the  children  in  their  stolen 
marches  upon  this  forbidden  field.  I  see  them  now,  leaping  at 
recess  past  the  gap  in  the  wall  (that  gap  which  would  never 
stay  mended)  into  their  trails,  neck  deep  in  grass,  tumbling  and 


tripping  as  they  went. 
Their  faces  are  beauti- 
ful, framed  in  memory 

by  the  ferns  and  grains  and  grasses  of  long  since  dead  harvests ; 

they  bring  with  them  an  Indian  summer  afterglow  of  sentiment. 
The  school-house  yard  was  a  sunny  spot,  defined  by  four  flat 

corner-stones,   good  for  the  game  of  goal,  crisscrossed  by  two 

hard-trodden  paths,  and  littered  by  loose-lying  sticks  and  pebbles. 

Its  stone  wall  was  jagged,  thistle-lined,  and  much  beset  by  bees. 


194  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

In  the  corner  next  to  the  school-house  was  an  ever-present  gap. 
You  know  how  handy  such  wall-holes  used  to  be  in  your  child- 
hood ;  how  your  bare  feet  clung  to  the  smooth  rocks,  which  had 
tumbled  to  the  other  side.  You  have  doubtless  yourself  helped 
make  them  in  pasture  boundaries,  or  been  the  bruised  victims 
of  unpremeditated  breaks.  Nobody  ever  seemed  to  know  howr 
this  hole  came.  It  was  a  school  mystery,  incessantly  mended 
and  as  incessantly  undone. 

Close  by  this  gap  was  one  corner  of  the  goal-ground.  The 
lively  game  of  goal  was  played  by  the  girls  at  recess,  the  largest 
ones  claiming  the  stones  and  right  of  way.  They  flew  eagerly 
from  rock  to  rock,  ,cheeks  aglow  and  hair  streaming.  The  smaller 
girls  either  watched  them  or  strayed  alongside  forbidden  fields 
for  wild  forage.  The  game  of  goal  was  too  tame  for  the  boys, 
whor  when  their  turn  came,  rushed  uproariously  out,  skimmed 
along  the  walls,  tumbled  with  somersaults  into  the  fields,  hurrahed 
up  and  down  the  highways,  irresponsible,  dirty,  happy ;  seldom 
getting  through  recess  without  a  free  fight.  The  small  boys 
played  marbles  on  the  sunny  door-steps,  or  exchanged  pockut 
treasures  around  the  school-house  corner.  When  the  teacher's 
knock  put  an  end  to  the  uproar,  they  tumbled  in  as  they  had 
tumbled  out,  marvellously  disentangling  at  the  threshold  of  the 
school-room. 

The  teachers  of  the  winter  schools  were  a  mixed  race.  Well- 
educated  farmers  sometimes  eked  out  their  incomes  and  filled 
up  their  winter  leisure  by  teaching  school.  Such  were  always 
savage  disciplinarians.  A  boy  seemed  as  tough  of  hide  to  them 


THE  DISTRICT  SCHOOL.  195 

as  "  Cherry"  and  "  Brindle,"  who  drew  their  carts.  They  were 
fertile  in  punishments  and  cruel  with  the  ferule, — green,  birchen, 
supple  ferule,  used  for  the  tingling  and  blistering  of  so  many 
outer  integuments.  These  teachers  were  apt  to  be  nasal  readers, 
but  they  were  infallible  in  spelling,  geography,  and  book-keeping. 
They  were  not  much  given  to  oral  instruction,  but  followed  one 
up  closely  in  the  multiplication  table,  abbreviations,  and  laws 
of  punctuation. 

The  village  teachers  were  called  masters  and  mistresses,  for 
many  of  them  a  fitting  title,  mimic  despots  as  they  were.  Often 
bright  young  men,  for  the  sake  of  the  meagre  pay,  taught  these 
schools.  They  were  apt  to  have  a  hard  time  of  it,  and  had  to 
be  strong  of  muscle  and  will  not  to  get  "  smoked  out,"  or  un- 
mercifully bothered  by  uncouth  tricks.  The  winter  schools  were 
rough.  Farmers'  boys,  freed  from  work,  many  of  them  grown 
to  man's  estate,  flocked  to  them  with  slate  and  copy-book  and 
text-books,  to  lay  up  that  stock  of  school  learning  which  was 
to  make  them  oracles  in  the  village  stores,  moderators  in  town- 
meetings,  and  representatives  to  general  courts.  They  were 
difficult  to  manage ;  puzzled  the  master  with  hard  sums  and 
knotty  questions,  and  roared  out  their  conceits  like  young  giants. 
They  stamped  through  the  snowy  entries,  shaggy-coated,  puffing 
like  engines,  rubbing  their  frosty  ears ;  uncouth,  yet  honest, 
patient,  and  full  of  a  rude  humanity ;  worthy,  hard-working 
farmers  that  were  to  be.  Here  and  there  one  different  from 
the  rest,  a  "queer  fellow,"  so  called,  drifted  apart  from  his  school- 
mates, so  that,  years  after,  they  were  wont  to  turn  wearily  from 


196  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

their  ploughs  and  boast  that  in  boyhood  they  had  mated  with 
a  famous  man. 

The  zeal  of  all  of  them  was  great  after  learning.  Their 
patience  was  pathetic.  The  dullest  of  them  hacked  away  at 
their  books  as  doggedly  as  they  did  in  summer  at  the  rocky 
soil.  Passing  along  the  highway  in  winter  evenings,  you  might 
behold,  through  the  exposed  windows  of  farm-houses,  young  boys 
deep  in  their  tasks,  by  the  light  of  tallow-candles  and  open  fires ; 
and  it  was  pleasant  to  see  the  "  old  folks"  watching  them  with  a 
sweet  pride,  only  surpassed  by  the  conceit  of  the  young  learners. 
The  books  they  used  were  few  and  seldom  changed;  but  they 
seemed  then  to  be  good  enough,  and  the  recitations  from  them 
were  the  best  of  their  kind.  These  district  schools  were  nurseries 
of  talent  and  ambition.  Their  conditions  of  severity  and  re- 
striction have  sent  forth  great  and  famous  men.  The  most 
laggard  scholars  were  yearly  bettered  by  them,  and  the  bright 
ones  got  from  their  three  or  four  winter  months  of  hard  study 
as  much  as  most  boys  and  girls  get  nowadays  from  nine  months' 
tuition. 

The  discarded  books  of  these  schools  are  often  found  in  the 
closets  and  garrets  of  old  farm-houses,  with  their  thick  brown 
covers  and  worm-eaten  leaves.  Their  text  is  of  quaint  lettering, 
but  their  sense  is  unabated  by  time,  and  one  feels  tempted  to 
go  back  to  the  use  of  these  potent  things  of  the  past,  whose 
obsolete  rules  have  taught  so  many  wise  men.  Turning  them 
over  and  following  them  is  like  talking  with  friends  who,  long 
ago,  helped  to  make  us  what  we  are.  Did  you  never,  in  later 


THE  DISTRICT  SCHOOL.  197 

life,  run  across  a  reader  (long  since  out  of  print)  which  was  used 
by  the  schools  of  your  youth?  Its  pages  seem  as  familiar  to 
you  as  nursery  rhymes,  and  you  feel  towards  it  as  tenderly 
almost  as  if  it  were  a  human  thing, — this  stilted  old  reader, 
whose  solid  literature  was  one  of  the  stumbling-blocks  of  your 
childhood.  You  have  not  forgotten  its  standard  declamations 
and  dialogues,  thrillingly  rendered  by  loud-voiced  boys  and  girls ; 
and  the  oft-repeating  of  its  much  prose  and  rhyme  made  you 
forever  intimate  with  them.  The  names  of  men  who  made  your 
school-books  are  household  words  to  you,  and  when  you  would 
teach  your  children,  your  tongue  trips  upon  the  rules  which  they 
taught  you. 

What  unpenned  literature  is  bound  up  in  books !  The  stories 
printed  on  their  pages  are  often  less  pathetic,  less  tragic,  than 
the  real  life  scenes  which  touch  or  sight  of  them  can  bring  back 
to  you.  I  confess  to  an  awe  in  handling  ancient  books,  and 
follow  their  tender,  mouldy  pages  as  if  I  were  in  the  presence 
of  their  past  owners.  The  fading  names  upon  their  fly-leaves 
have  the  helpless  significance  of  all  memorials  of  the  dead. 
There  is  a  sad  delight  in  rummaging  through  an  old  library, — 
in  dragging  out  from  corners  and  upper  shelves  volumes  tucked 
away  as  worthless,  but  redeemed  into  preciousness  by  past  use 
of  them.  Books  that  you  used  in  your  school-days,  you  curiously 
turn  over  for  the  marks  you  left  in  them.  Gift -books,  which  have 
been  thrust  aside,  are  taken  back,  for  the  memory  of  him  or 
her  who  wrote  upon  their  blank  leaves  pleasant  messages.  Guide- 
books and  books  that  you  read  upon  journeys  thrust  their  titles 

26 


198  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

upon  you,  and  set  you  again  on  your  travels.  Books  once  read 
with  friends  quicken  your  memories  of  social  life.  Books  with 
strange  names  in  them;  picked  up  from  stalls,  affect  you  like 
human  waifs ;  and  ancient  books,  of  quaint  dialect,  like  ghosts 
of  the  past.  But  before  all  others  are  the  books  which  never 
get  tucked  away  in  corners ;  those  which  were  read  last  by  the 
loved  and  lost.  How  many  have  such,  with  marks  left  in ;  pencil 
touches ;  a  stray  letter ;  names  scrawled, — pitifully  meagre,  un- 
satisfactory traces  of  hands  which  can  never  again  turn  them ! 
Take  from  me  my  books,  most  of  them,  if  you  will,  but  do  not 
dare  to  touch  the  precious  volumes  in  blue  and  gold  turned 
slowly  over  by  the  fingers  of  my  dying  child.  They  left  no 
soil  on  the  page,  but  their  sacred  imprint  is  no  less  indelible 
to  me.  Dear  old  books,  all  of  you, — no  matter  how  much  your 
printed  leaves  lie,  the  overlapping  text,  legible  alone  to  faithful 
love,  can  never  be  false  !  You  may  grow  mildewy  and  musty, 
hut  ever  tender  and  beautiful  shall  be  the  associations  with 
which  you  are  bound. 

Ancient  school-houses  were  not  built  for  comfort.  Their  seats 
were  high  and  narrow,  their  desks  awkward  and  inconvenient. 
Their  chimneys  were  large,  fireplaces  broad  and  smoky,  and  the 
floors  in  front  of  them  were  sure  to  be  worn  with  the  tramp  of 
uneasily-seated  children,  who  in  winter  went  up  to  them  in  never- 
ending  procession.  The  worst-used  place  in  the  whole  district 
was  the  school-room.  Youngsters  hewed  and  hacked  at  their 
desks  with  a  revengeful  persistence.  The  plastering  of  the  walls 
was  covered  with  rude  inscriptions,  and  the  ceiling  overhead 


THE  DISTRICT  SCHOOL. 


199 


bespattered  with  ink  and  paper  squibs.  No  boy  or  girl  ever 
plead  guilty  of  any  of  these  mars  and  blots,  but  many  additions 
went  each  term  into  the  aggregate  of  this  spontaneous  frescoing. 
The  old  school-room  in  my  grandfather's  district  was  full  of 


scrawls  and  names  and  quaint  maxims.  Almost  every  teacher 
had  his  or  her  profile  in  it,  done  in  tolerable  outline  by  roguish 
fingers.  No  law  had  force  against  this  custom.  The  scribbling 
of  the  school-room  had  become  a  second  nature  to  the  scholars, 
and  it  seemed  less  culpable  because  the  rough,  blotched  walls 


200  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

upon  near  inspection  resolved  themselves  into  art  exponents  of 
child-life ;  made  up  of  outline  leaves  and  flowers  and  birds  and 
scraps  of  rhyme, — crude  pictures  of  what  had  gone  into  and 
out  of  the  children's  days.  The  marring  of  school-rooms  thus, 
in  one  sense,  becomes  their  embellishment.  The  names,  whittled 
indelibly  into  desk-lids  and  door-posts,  and  all  the  traces  of  by- 
gone child  possession, — these  are  the  true  ghosts  of  scholars  and 
school-days  that  are  past. 

In  summer  the  rows  of  small,  opposite  windows  in  old  school- 
houses,  open  upon  the  children's  necks,  inured  them  to  draughts ; 
and  nothing  could  be  purer  than  the  breezes  which  blew  from 
every  quarter  of  the  heavens  into  these  wide-opened  rooms.  In 
winter  up  the  big  chimneys  went  most  of  the  heat,  and  with  it 
all  the  bad  air ;  whilst  through  cracks  and  chinks  without  number 
blew  the  biting  but  health-giving  north  wind.  It  was  hard  on 
little  boys  and  girls  in  corner-seats ;  but  then  they  were  all  well 
wrapped  up  in  homespun  suits,  and  were  always  going  to  the 
fire  to  warnT  their  tingling  fingers  and  toes.  Every  comer  into 
the  room  let  in  a  blast  of  cold  air.  At  recess  the  boys  tumbled 
into  the  snow,  and  came  back  shaking  it  from  their  garments. 
Two  or  three  deep  in  a  semicircle  they  hugged  the  fireplace,  and 
sucked  at  snow-balls  crushed  in  their  half-frozen  fingers  till 
the  tap  of  the  master's  ferule  sent  them  unwillingly  to  their 
desks. 

The  floor  about  the  fireplace  was  always  soppy  in  winter  with 
incoming  snow,  and  in  summer  was  sure  to  be  wet  from  slate- 
washings  and  the  careless  upsetting  of  dippers.  Close  by  it, 


THE  DISTRICT  SCHOOL.  201 

upon  a  low  bench,  stood  the  water-pail,  the  filling  of  which  on 
summer  days  was  a  rare  privilege  to  the  older  girls.  The  spring 
was  quite  far  away,  close  by  the  edge  of  a  wood.  It  was  a  pretty 
sight  to  see  them  bursting  into  the  school-room,  staggering  under 
their  load :  rosy,  laughing,  with  their  aprons  full  of  flowers  and 
mint  from  the  brookside.  The  water  of  the  spring  had  a  snaky 
repute,  but  it  was  freely  drank  of  by  all  the  children,  and  in 
various  ways  catered  largely  to  their  comfort  and  delight.  On 
hot  summer  days  the  larger  girls  used  to  splash  it  about,  and  it 
would  trickle  down  the  aisles  to  scatter  in  dust-bound  globules 
over  the  dingy  floor. 

Peculiar,  positive,  and  unlike  any  other,  was  at  night  the 
summer  odor  of  these  school-rooms.  The  thick  dust,  ground 
fine  by  the  tramping  of  restless  feet,  elsewhere  musty,  here 
seemed  to  be  scented  with  the  withered  roses  and  ferns  and  mint 
left  behind  them  by  the  half-wild  children.  Apple-cores,  scraps 
of  paper,  and  bits  of  pencil  were  scattered  about,  and  now  and 
then  the  sweeper  came  across  something  from  out  the  treasures 
of  a  boy's  pocket.  The  latter  often  in  school-hours  found  a  way 
to  the  floor,  and  got  lodged  in  the  teacher's  desk.  It  was  curious 
to  look  into  the  children's  boxes,  and  see  in  them  how  mischievous 
boys  and  girls  had  whiled  away  the  laggard  hours ;  how  many 
apples  and  ginger-cakes  had  been  slyly  eaten,  and  cubby-houses 
built  from  books,  unbeknown  to  the  teacher.  The  desk  of  the 
latter,  fast  locked,  was  always  fragrant  with  confiscated  fruit. 

The  aspect  of  one  of  these  rooms  after  the  day's  work  was 
over  was  tenderly  suggestive.  It  was  a  place  out  of  which  a 


202  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

jocund  life  had  gone,  and  the  waste  scattered  around  was  made 
up  of  such  things  as  the  children  had  gotten  out  of  their  stay 
in  it.  There  was  something  poetical  in  this  leaving  behind  them 
the  scents  of  the  weeds  and  blossoms  which  they  had  plucked, — 
the  fading  memorials  of  the  delights  of  a  day  that  had  passed. 

The  person  who  found  solid  comfort  in  the  winter  schools 
was  that  master  who  boarded  'round  in  country  districts,  and 
tasted  the  cream  of  kindness  in  farmers'  houses.  He  sat  in 
the  best  seat,  in  the  corner,  through  winter  evenings,  book  in 
hand,  reserved,  prim,  feared,  if  not  hated,  by  the  youngsters. 
His  presence  quickened  the  life  of  a  household.  Best  dishes 
were  brought  out,  and  dainties  came  upon  the  table.  The  "  fore 
room"  was  most  likely  opened,  and  neighboring  farmers  came 
in  of  evenings  to  converse  with  this  son  of  learning.  The  house- 
wife was  more  spruce  in  her  attire,  and  the  children  were  "  fixed 
up"  for  the  occasion.  Some  of  these  masters  were  like  watch- 
dogs, and  from  their  corner  no  covert  sneer  escaped  them.  The 
hard  school  usage  of  many  a  boy  and  girl  dated  from  dislike 
come  of  these  transient  tarryings. 

The  summer  school-mistresses,  mostly  farmers'  daughters, 
seldom  brought  much  learning  to  their  tasks,  but  they  were 
generally  good-natured,  and  in  favor  with  their  scholars.  Hard- 
worked  mothers  sent  their  younger  children  to  them  as  freely 
as  if  they  had  been  hired  nurses,  and  the  lower  row  of  seats 
was  always  full  of  the  druling,  sleepy  little  things,  with  legs 
helplessly  dangling.  Patchwork  and  samplers  were  allowed  in 
these  schools,  and  curious  pieces  of  their  faded  old  needlework 


THE  DISTRICT  SCHOOL.  203 

are  still  to  be  found  in  country  farm-houses.  The  securing  of 
the  summer  schools  was  often  the  cause  of  ill-feeling.  Much 
canvassing  was  done,  and  committeemen  were  chosen  with  ref- 
erence to  particular  candidates,  who  went  before  them  to  be 
examined  in  arithmetic,  grammar,  geography,  and  writing.  The 
school  pay  was  meagre,  but  a  large  item  then  to  the  girl  of 
simple  tastes  and  habits. 

It  was  astonishing  how  much  the  glory  of  the  summer  de- 
pended, to  the  children,  upon  the  nature  of  the  mistress.  All 
the  sunshine  they  got  in  their  school-hours  seemed  to  pass 
through  her;  and  by  her  disposition,  as  much  as  by  the  book 
lessons  she  taught  them,  she  did  her  work  at  moulding  their 
characters.  A  cross  mistress  turned  their  sweet  into  bitter,  and 
made  the  otherwise  happy  days  long  and  wearisome.  The  chil- 
dren took  upon  such  their  natural  revenges.  They  brought  her 
no  flowers ;  they  lagged  at  their  books,  and  withdrew  from  the 
aspect  of  the  room  much  of  its  wild  summer  adornments.  But 
this  was  only  a  transient  suppression ;  outside  they  were  the 
same  romping,  riotous,  nature-loving  children. 

If  you  have  fortunately  been  one  of  these  school-children,  you 
recall  the  features  and  accidents  of  rny  picture, — the  low-roofed 
school-house ;  its  adjoining  wood-shed,  littered  with  chips ;  the 
beaten  play-ground ;  the  outlying  field,  full  of  buttercups  ;  the 
wayside,  thick  with  thistle  and  mullein  and  hardback  ;  the  over- 
hanging trees,  the  fallen  fruit  of  which  was  lawful  plunder ;  the 
near  wood ;  the  far-off  mountains ;  the  blue  sky  overhead ;  the 
sunlight ;  the  shadows ;  the  moving  life  of  the  scene.  You  see 


204 


NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 


the  traveller  coming  down  the  thread  of  a  highway  on  the  distant 
hill;  the  farmer's  daughter  spreading  her  clothes  to  bleach  in 
the  orchard ;  working-men  and  oxen  in  the  fields ;  the  shimmer 
of  the  near  stream.  You  hear  the  brook's  babble  and  the  hum 
of  the  insects ;  the  song  of  birds  and  the  drowsy  undertone  of 
nature.  You  see  and  feel  it  all, — the  onward  processes  of  life ; 
the  unerring  growth  of  the  year ;  the  resistless  tramp  of  time. 
Very  much  would  you  give  to  leap  back  for  a  day  upon  the  old 
goal-ground,  that  you  might  lie  upon  the  grass,  a  scholar  and  a 
dreamer,  and  again  watch  that  narrow  landscape,  which  grew  into 
you  with  a  fruitful  minuteness,  and  which  has  been  the  stable 
groundwork  of  the  best  landscapes  of  your  maturer  life. 


FOKTY  years  ago  the  vil- 
lage store  was  the  rallying- 
point   of  all    the   country   round    it. 
Such  was  William   Baylor's   of  Whitefield 
Corner.     The  long  bench  for  loafers,  and 
the  feeding- troughs  for  horses  in  front  of 
its  door,  were  no  less  its  sign  than  was  the 
painted  board,  on  which  was  inscribed  in  gilt 
letters  the  owner's  name.     Bench  loafers  were 
perennial.     They  were  the-  lazzaroni  of  village 
life;    as  much  its  grotesque  embellishment  as 
gargoyles  were  of  gothic  architecture.     Three 
of  them  are  distinctly  pictured  in  memory  upon 
the   outside  wall   of  William    Saylor's   store,   against  which   in 
summer  they  used  to  sit  and  sun  themselves,  given  to  whittling 
and   expectoration.     Their   intermittent   talk 'was   like  the  dull 

27 


206  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

drone  of  bees.  With  sluggish  curiosity  they  eyed  the  passing 
traveller,  and  were  somewhat  stirred  by  the  coming  of  the  stage. 
Smoking  blackened  pipes  with  short  stems,  they  occasionally 
exchanged  what  they  called  "chaws  of  terbaccer;"  and  with  a 
dialect  of  their  own,  were  of  the  class  which  has  been  the 
source  of  the  slang  so  often  falsely  given  in  story  as  a  type  of 
the  prevailing  speech  of  old-time  New  England.  These  loafers 
were  rarely  disabled  by  liquor,  but  were  spoken  of  as  "  soaked ;" 
and  even  when  past  this  recognized  boundary  of  sobriety,  were 
generally  harmless.  Nor  were  they  lacking  in  a  certain  instinct 
of  civility.  If  a  comely  matron  or  pretty  lass  alighted  from 
her  wagon  before  them,  they  forebore  comment  upon  her  charms 
until  she  was  inside  the  store.  When  their  bench  had  been 
usurped  by  their  betters,  they  slouched  across  the  way  to  the 
cobbler's  shop  or  the  tavern. 

In  haying  and  harvest  times,  when  the  laziest  of  them  were 
absorbed  into  adjacent  fields,  William  Saylor  himself  would  come 
out  and  sit  on  the  bench,  waiting  for  such  stray  custom  as  d£iry 
work  or  daily  farm  wants  might  bring  to  him.  Nobody  could 
seem  less  busy  or  more  contented  than  he,  basking  in  the  sun- 
shine. In  truth,  he  was  both  busy  and  anxious.  Alert  for  cus- 
tomers, he  was  reckoning  his  profits  and  forecasting  future  trade. 
He  had  some  reputation  for  gallantry;  but  what  shopper  was 
ever  harmed  by  his  well-turned  compliments  ?  His  graciousness 
was  the  more  commendable  because  nature  had  marred  his  pro- 
portions by  several  deformities;  otherwise  he  would  have  been, 
people  said,  a  handsome  man.  His  love  of  gossip  was  pro- 


THE   COUNTRY  SJt>EE.  207 

verbial.  There  was  a  Whitefield  saying  that  what  William 
Saylor  did  not  know  was  ""not  worth  knowing;"  also,  that  no 
talking  could  go  on  where  he  was  without  his  "putting  in  an 
oar."  By  the  more  worldly-wise  he  was  called  sharp  at  a  bar- 
gain, but  he  was  trusted  by  simple  farmers'  wives  with  credulity. 
The  earliest  remembered  errand  of  most  Whitefield  children 
was  to  his  store.  His  profits  came  in  by  cents;  the  abject  in- 
dustry of  a  whole  year  bringing  him  but  a  few  hundred  dollars. 
Yet  he  was  looked  upon  as  "  well-to-do,"  for  he  lived  gener- 
ously in  a  large  house,  overhung  by  trees,  and  for  years  had 
been  both  postmaster  and  town-clerk.  He  was  a  tireless  officer, 
ferreting  out  marginal  writing  upon  newspapers,  and  exacting 
fines  with  relish. 

Becky,  his  wife,  was  one  of  the  neatest  housekeepers  in  White- 
field.  Her  shining  floors  were  the  terror  of  dirty  boys.  Her 
garden,  overlooked  by  the  meeting-house,  was  a  wonder  and 
delight.  Never  were  such  double  poppies  and  marigolds  as  it 
held ;  never  such  red  apples,  such  purple  damsons,  such  fat 
currants  and  gooseberries;  and  though  its  flowers  jostled  each 
other  with  odd  variety  of  color,  they  were  a  great  delight  to 
uncritical  eyes. 

It  had  the  name  of  being  a  stingy  garden.  Even  windfalls 
by  the  roadside  were  begrudged  the  passer-by.  That  which  was 
really  its  best  fruit,  however,  could  not  be  withheld, — that  sense 
of  beauty  and  luxury  which  went  out  from  it  into  the  hearts  of 
tired  women,  who,  in  meeting-time,  used  to  keep  their  eyes  fixed 
upon  its  blossoms,  while  gratefully  breathing  its  scents.  As  they 


208  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

sat  swinging  great  palm-leaf  fans,  with  a  sort  of  rhythmic 
motion,  their  patient  faces,  softened  by  the  day's  ease  and  con- 
tentment, were  picturesque,  and,  in  a  measure,  beautiful. 

In  a  city,  William  Saylor,  with  his  maimed  body,  would  have 
been  tossed  about,  an  unknown  waif,  by  its  all-devouring  current. 
In  the  little  village  of  Whitefield,  bolstered  up  by  kind  neighbors, 
his  executive  force  was  projected  upon  the  surface  of  its  life,  an 
important  factor.  He  was  the  spry,  bustling,  curious,  kindly, 
courteous,  loquacious  storekeeper,  who  taught  fashions  with  con- 
fidence and  facility  ;  grasping,  yet  trusted ;  oracular,  but  humble ; 
fallible,  while  on  the  whole  well-meaning;  full  of  harmless  con- 
ceit; unstinted  in  paying  hospitality;  half  admirable;  half 
grotesque.  Peace  to  his  ashes ! 

How  many  people,  who  are  hidden  away  unnoticed  in  towns 
and  cities,  might,  in  the  quiet  of  some  country  village,  rise  to 
a  high  individuality,  and  make  a  lasting  impress  on  neighbor- 
hood life ! 

William  Saylor  always  seemed  to  be  hopping  in  and  out  his 
box  of  a  counting-room,  the  walls  of  which  were  zigzagged  with 
broad  tape,  stuck  full  of  bills  and  letters.  These  were,  for  the 
most  part,  yellow  with  age ;  and  the  uppermost  ones,  with 
faded  labels,  had  served  as  roosts  for  generations  of  flies.  This 
littered  room  was  the  very  heart  of  the  village.  Each  day  the 
stage-driver  flung  into  it  his  mail-bag,  which  linked  retired 
people  to  the  wider  world ;  and  from  it  every  night  William 
Saylor  carried  in  a  small,  leather-covered  box,  thickly  studded 
with  brass  nails,  the  profits  of  his  day's  trade.  How  well  I 


THE  COUNTRY  STORE.  209 

recall  Moses,  the  stage-driver,  as  he  dashes  up,  six  in  hand,  with 
a  loud  "  Whoa,"  almost  flinging  his  leaders  on  their  haunches ! 
Windows  swarm  with  faces;  the  loafers  forget  to  puff  at  their 
pipes.  Out  flies  a  leather  bag,  caught  by  the  postmaster  half- 
way ;  and  in  a  twinkling  back  it  comes,  little  lightened  by  loss 
of  the  Whitefield  mail.  A  snap  at  the  heads  of  the  leaders ;  a 
prancing ;  a  dash, — away  flies  the  coach  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  and 
the  loafers  settle  back  to  their  pipes.  Later,  in  the  silent,  de- 
serted street,  William  Saylor,  holding  tight  his  leathern  box, 
spry  as  a  cat  despite  his  lameness,  flits  past  closed  houses  to 
his  home. 

The  stage-driver's  bustle,  the  trader's  caution,  the  coming 
of  the  mail,  were  but  ripples  from  the  great  far-off  tidal 
waves ;  and  yet  these  ripples  marked  the  day  quite  as  much 
for  the  village  of  Whitefield  as  did  the  tidal  waves  for  populous 
towns. 

Over  the  store  were  two  chambers,  one  of  which  was  the  office 
of  an  able,  hot-headed  lawyer,  who  had  been  heard  through  a 
hole  in  the  floor  threatening  to  kick  an  obstinate  client  down- 
stairs. William  Saylor  was  suspected  of  keeping  an  ear  open 
to  this  hole ;  but  secrets  could  go  up  as  well  as  down,  and  though 
curious,  he  was  discreet.  Why  it  was  never  stopped  can  be  no 
mystery  to  one  country-born,  who  well  remembers  the  tendency 
in  rural  life  to  drift  with  plans  into  the  indefinite  future, — to 
"put  off;"  a  dallying  due  much  to  lack  of  means  for  execution; 
more  to  an  instinctive  acquiescence  with  the  sluggish  tide  of 
custom ;  for  thus  one  taketh  his  ease. 


210  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

In  the  other  chamber  were  kept  farming  utensils  and  such 
things  as  would  crowd  the  store  below.  It  was  curiously  rugged, 
and  without  like  domestic  associations,  had  somehow  the  at- 
mosphere of  a  farm-house  garret.  It  was  humanized  by  a 
library  of  books,  most  of  which  had  been  in  use  for  half  a  cen- 
tury. Long  since  mellowed,  they  had  begun,  many  of  them, 
to  decay ;  and  not  one  of  them  was  so  fresh  as  to  seem  out 
of  place  in  this  spot  given  over  to  cobwebs  and  dust. 

The  store-shelves  rose  from  floor  to  ceiling,  and  were  packed 
close  with  a  medley  of  such  things  as  the  actual  wants  or  mild 
vanities  of  a  plain  people  might  suggest.  "  Dry-goods"  were 
arranged  with  some  eye  to  effect.  Ked  and  blue  and  yellow 
fabrics  made  contrasting  streaks,  while  various  fancy  articles 
dangled  from  thick-set  hooks  in  partitions  of  shelves.  Under 
the  counters  were  odds  and  ends  of  traffic.  Thence  came  cotton 
batting  and  "factory  yarn,"  and  woollen  skeins  spun  by  farmers' 
wives. 

A  peculiar  odor  pervaded  the  place.  Sometimes  it  was  of 
molasses,  sometimes  of  fish,  and  again  of  tea  or  coffee.  There 
was  always  a  faint  scent  of  snuff  in  the  air.  When  the  trap- 
door of  the  cellar,  in  which  were  kept  the  butter  and  pork, 
taken  in  barter,  was  lifted,  there  came  up  a  strong  smell  of 
New  England  rum.  The  spigot  of  the  molasses  hogshead  in 
the  back  part  of  the  store  seemed  to  be  always  drizzling  into 
a  tin  measure,  which  in  summer  made  an  excellent  fly-trap. 
The  molasses  had  then  a  yeasty  trick  of  foaming,  and  was  apt 
to  sour.  Once  in  a  while  it  "  sugared." 


THE  COUNTRY  STORE.  211 

The  floor  of  that  portion  of  the  store  given  over  to  groceries 
becaVne  in  time  thick  coated  and  almost  black.  Save  for  its 
daily  sprinkling  and  sweeping,  the  place  was  perhaps  never 
cleaned.  Yet  this  gradual  accumulation  of  grime  was  such  a 
familiar  feature  of  long-used,  unpainted  buildings  of  this  sort, 
that  I  am  not  sure  it  would  have  been  so  well  or  gratefully 
remembered  had  it  been  robbed  of  its  brown  and  cobwebby 
encrusting. 

This  all  sounds  homely;  but  you  might  search  in  vain  on 
city  streets  for  the  mellow,  pleasing  aspect  of  an  old-time  coun- 
try store.  Entered  by  a  narrow  door;  dimly  lighted;  full  of 
oddly-mixed  commodities;  its  unplastered  ceiling  black  with 
smoke,  and  crossed  by  beams  hung  thickly  with  quaint  things ; 
rust  and  mildew  lurking  in  corners  and  creeping  along  edges 
of  shelves;  shop-worn  webs,  the  better  for  mellowing;  fresh 
goods  upheaving  the  older  on  the  shelves,  and  easily  traced 
in  strata;  the  mysterious  maw  "under  the  counter;"  it  was 
as  rich  and  warm  in  tone  as  an  old  Persian  prayer-rug,  and 
the  barbaric  flavor  of  its  mingled  odors  was,  strange  to  say, 
agreeable.  It  needed  no  show-window,  for  the  woman  who  had 
once  rested  in  its  shade  from  the  heat  of  the  day  never  broke 
away  from  its  charm.  How  many  people  pleasantly  remember 
the  calicoes  of  such  stores,  deep  dyed  in  indigo  blue  and  red; 
the  bandanna  handkerchiefs  mottled  with  white ;  the  cotton 
thread,  knotted  in  "  hanks"  and  exhausting  the  best  range  of 
color ! 

These   old-time   country  stores,  driftwood   for   a  time  of  the 


212  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

quickened  current  of  isolated  life,  are  nearly  all  gone.  Their 
successors  are  garish  and  commonplace. 

Twice  a  year  William  Saylor  went  by  stage  to  Boston  and 
bought  a  new  stock,  the  coming  of  which,  and  its  tossing  about 
in  bales  and  boxes  in  front  of  his  store,  was  a  village  event.  Not 
many  high-priced  articles  found  their  way  to  Whitefield  through 
him,  his  trade  being  mostly  with  farmers'  families.  In  a  row 
of  drawers,  however,  were  kept  an  occasional  piece  of  silk,  and  a 
few  webs  of  lawn  and  lace.  The  lawn  was  of  good  quality,  and 
from  it,  when  her  turn  came,  she  who  had  never  known  gay  attire 
was  sure  to  have  her  last  robe  decorously  fashioned  by  loving 
neighbors.  From  the  lace  were  made  caps  worn  by  matrons  past 
middle  life,  the  borders  of  which  were  prettily  wrought  with 
floss.  Such  webs  were  apt  to  get  what  was  called  "shop-worn." 
Yellow  streaks  went  into  them  and  indelible  creases;  positive 
tooth-marks  of  time. 

William  Saylor  never  abated  his  price  because  of  these  brands 
of  long  possession.  He  always  assured  women  that  they  would 
"wash"  or  "wear  out."  Perhaps  he  had  an  artist's  eye  for 
the  mellowing  of  his  goods.  How  could  he  help  loving  that 
creamy  tint, — that  tint  of  perfection  which  creeps  along  its 
folds  into  meshes  of  old  lace ;  indeed,  into  all  long- woven  undyed 
fabrics ! 

Sometimes,  in  unaccustomed  ways  of  trade,  strange  articles 
found  place  upon  the  storekeeper's  shelves,  and  were  readily 
bought  by  innocent  villagers.  There  was  often  peculiar  fitness 
to  proposed  uses  in  the  things  thus  taken  up ;  isolation  ever 


THE  COUNTRY  STORE.  213 

forced  new  styles  into  congruity,  or  at  least  into  lack  of  an- 
tagonism, with  that  intense  personality  which  was  wont  to  pos- 
sess village  people.  Such  portion  of  their  attire  as  was  meant 
to  be  ornamental  became  doubly  so  for  its  rarity. 

All  thrifty  Whitefield  women  once  carried  beaded  bags ;  bright 
woven  things,  come  down  as  heirlooms.  Again  poke  bonnets 
appeared,  made  from  a  ribbed,  pale-yellow,  paper  stuff,  in  imita- 
tion of  leghorn,  and  called  Navarino;  a  pretty  head-gear  when 
it  had  been  skilfully  cut  and  sewed  together. 

Nothing  could  be  homelier  than  the  country  wagon  drawn 
up  on  a  summer's  afternoon  in  front  of  Baylor's  store.  While 
the  farmer  slipped  the  blinders  from  his  horse  and  dealt  out 
oats  or  hay,  the  housewife  pulled  from  under  the  seat  boxes 
and  bundles,  which  the  twain  tugged  up  the  store-steps  with 
the  laggard  pace  of  hard  workers.  Before  their  barter  had 
ended  the  horse  had  munched  his  oats,  lapped  his  trough 
clean,  and  had  begun  to  chew  its  wood.  There  were  three  of 
these  troughs,  much  gnawed  by  cribbing  horses.  Trivial  facts, 
yet  chronicling  to  an  observing  eye  a  life  current  which,  under 
more  dramatic  conditions,  would  have  seemed  motionless  and 
stagnant. 

The  farmer  and  his  wife  stepped  more  lightly  when  they 
came  out.  Their  bundles  were  smaller,  and  they  had  been 
enlivened  by  the  sight  of  store-goods.  Ploughshares  and  hoes, 
unsullied  by  use,  had  delighted  the  man's  eye,  while  the  house- 
wife had  feasted  hers  upon  silks  and  muslins  folded  in  the 

drawers. 

28 


214  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

There  was  something  pathetic,  almost  sacred,  in  this  aptitude 
to  receive  impressions  from  such  simple  sources.  I  have  seen 
old-time  Whitefield  barterers,  while  handling  with  roughened 
fingers  soft  webs  which  rarely  adorned  other  than  village  bridals 
or  burials,  seem  as  delighted  by  their  touch  as  children  are 
with  toys.  Then  they  pushed  them  away,  took  up  the  fruits 
of  barter,  and  went  home  contented. 

The  corner  on  a  late  autumn  day  was  like  a  miniature  fair; 
then  William  Saylor  had  not  a  minute  to  spare  from  his  twine  and 
his  yardstick.  Incoming  and  outgoing  wagons  kept  up  a  constant 
procession.  Women  pulled  over  his  goods,  and  what  they  were 
too  poor  to  buy  they  talked  about  with  admiring  neighbors.  The 
men  made  their  coarser  purchases  and  lounged  by  their  horses, 
while  a  row  of  loafers  smoked  and  gossipped  on  the  bench  outside. 
I  dare  say  not  one  of  them  took  note  of  the  beautiful  outlying 
scenery ;  but  they  were  none  the  less  enframed  and  embellished 
by  it. 

Winter  always  sent  the  loafers  inside,  where  they  exchanged 
their  bench  for  wooden-bottomed  chairs  around  a  roaring  stove. 
Horses  scenting  littered  oats  and  hay  would  stop  of  their  own 
accord  before  the  troughs ;  and  a  double  row  of  them,  shaggy 
with  buffalo-robes,  was  often  to  be  seen  standing  at  the  corner. 
With  them  came  sleds  full  of  wood,  waiting  for  customers,  and 
"regular  teams"  stopping  for  "bait."  After  Thanksgiving,  before 
the  roads  began  to  drift,  people  were  in  the  habit  of  going  often 
to  the  corner.  Their  constant  passing  enlivened  the  highway; 
and  sound  of  bells  was  grateful  in  a  silence  otherwise  so  profound. 


THE  COUNTRY  STORE.  215 

Such  silence  always  pervades  in  the  open  country  a  snow- 
covered  landscape.  In  summer  there  is  ever  the  drowsy  under- 
tone of  growing  nature,  but  winter  is  rest,  and  rest  of  nature 
is  silence. 

The  still,  moonlit,  winter  nights  of  Whitefield  Corner  were 
sublime.  The  high-perched  little  village,  but  a  speck  under 
the  great  arch  of  a  glittering  sky,  with  its  wall  of  mountains, 
seemed  sometimes  nearer  to  the  other  world  than  this.  The 
people  and  things  I  describe  are  pleasant,  brown  shadings  of 
its  white-winged  memories.  The  apparent  life  of  the  villagers 
was  restful  and  quiet ;  underneath  was  a  strong  still  undertow. 
These  simple-hearted  people  truly  lay  upon  the  bosom  of  nature. 
Hence  came  to  them  poetry  and  sentiment  and  a  measure  of 
sadness,  resulting  from  undiverted  companionship  with  her 
forces.  They  who  floated,  or  were  lightly  tossed  on  the  sur- 
face, were  quiescent  and  happy.  Only  those  who  touched 
the  undertow  felt  with  pathetic,  often  tragic  power,  how  small 
a  relation  their  own  little  strand  bore  to  the  great  ocean  of 
life. 

William  Saylor's  store  was  more  than  a  lounging-place  in 
winter.  It  was  an  unorganized  lyceum,  fed  by  the  classic  library 
shut  up  with  the  ploughs  and  hoes  in  its  chamber.  There  a 
wise  blacksmith  and  a  well-read  carpenter  held  high  dispute 
with  the  college-learned  lawyers  and  doctors,  while  a  row 
of  eager  listeners  sat  perched  upon  the  counters.  Several 
men  were  absolute  winter  fixtures  of  the  place.  Old  Squire 
Savior,  William's  father,  night  after  night  growled  his  approval 


216  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

or  dissent  from  the  self-same  corner;  and  beside  him,  the  ".twin 
farmers"  drifted  into  a  serene  old  age.  Most  of  his  visitors 
were  tireless  whittlers,  and  kept  Saylor  well  supplied  with 
kindlings.  A  goodly-sized  monument  might-  have  been  built 
to  the  best  lawyer  from  the  pine  sticks  which  he  had  pointed, 
through  force  of  habit,  in  his  not  too  many  leisure  hours.  Un- 
occupied composure  is  the  outcome  of  polite  society.  '  These 
villagers  were  possessed  of  the  demon  of  work ;  and  this  whittling 
of  the  store  loiterer  was  but  the  oozing  through  fingers'  ends 
of  ingrained  force. 

Farmers  liked  to  drive  hither  on  moonlit  nights,  to  hear 
what  they  called  "  college  learning."  They  had  a  way  of  say- 
ing to  their  "  gude wives,"  "  I  guess  after  I've  foddered  the  cattle 
and  done  up  the  chores  I'll  go  to  the  corner."  They  talked 
there  by  themselves  of  stock  and  produce ;  of  sickness  and  mor- 
tality ;  compared  the  girth  of  cattle ;  made  note  of  prices ;  fore- 
stalled -the  weather ;  praised  the  work  of  wives  and  daughters, 
and  sometimes  the  latest  sermon ;  found  little  fault,  and  did 
little  mischief  by  their  chatter.  A  sudden  coming  in  of  the 
minister  stopped  all  lighter  talk,  and  turned  the  loafers  into 
dummies.-  Shortly  afterwards  they  carried  to  their  homes  a  full 
news  budget  of  harmless  gossip. 

The  knot  of  wise  men  seen  by  the  light  of  an  oil  lamp  through 
a  small  eastern  window  of  William  Saylor's  store  made  a  quaint 
picture.  Half  of  them  were  classically  educated ;  all  good 
thinkers,  to  whom  the  loafers  were  no  more  than  warts  of 
fungus  to  trunks  of  old  oaks.  They  abstained  from  liquor,  which 


THE  COUNTRY  STORE. 


217 


was  then  a  common  beverage,  because  of  the  dying  entreaty  of 
one  of  their  number,  with  whom  they  had  passed  many  jocund 
evenings  over  cards  and  wine.  He  warned  them  with  awful 
emphasis,  and  .nothing  better  illustrates  their  strength  and  in- 


tegrity of  nature  than  the  fact  that  at  the  first  real  presenti- 
ment of  danger  they  turned  with  the  sharpness  of  a  right 
angle  into  ways  of  utter  sobriety. 

The  story  of  their  reformation  and  its  tragic  cause  was  handed 
down  with  that  distinct  minuteness  with  which  all  village  tradi- 
tions are  preserved.  Upon  the  dying  man's  own  testimony  he 


218  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

was  given  over  to  outer  darkness ;  and  children  were  told  his 
last  words  as  a  part  of  their  moral  training.  So  much  does  a 
single  life  stand  out  in  the  country ;  no  career  is  concealed,  no 
death-bed  curtained.  All  is  open  to  the  sun,  which  happily  for 
many  years  after  shone,  in  the  little  hamlet  of  Whitefielcl,  on 
nothing  so  sad  as  this  man's  new-made  grave. 

Save  the  periodical  sprees  of  three  chronic  tipplers,  liquor 
seldom  disturbed  the  quiet  of  the  village  street.  Stinginess, 
and  their  own  cider,  kept  farmers  from  indulgence.  The  tem- 
perance lecture  of  the  brilliant,  dying  comrade  controlled  some ; 
while  others  were  restrained  by  that  superior  learning  and  con- 
sequent self-respect  which  before  the  days  of  railroads  marked 
the  professional  men  of  country  villages;  such  men  as  in  Wil- 
liam Saylor's  store  made  a  village  autocracy,  and  were  the 
fountain-head  of  politics  if  not  of  morals. 

Before  town-meetings,  earnest  voices  might  be  heard  through 
the  closed  door ;  and  through  the  little  window  was  seen  much 
gesticulation.  Brawling  was  infrequent;  if,  however,  dispute 
rose  above  high-water  mark,  it  spread  like  a  civil  war.  Once 
a  harmful  bit  of  gossip  exuding  from  the  store,  set  two  families 
at  swords'-points  for  a  generation.  A  severe  breach  was  hard 
to  heal.  These  same  people,  who  were  ordinarily  unswerving 
in  paths  of  rectitude,  were  apt  to  be  as  obstinate  as  mules 
when  they  went  wrong. 

As  a  rule  the  eager  talkers  were  self-contained.  Their  most 
excited  moods  were  easily  calmed  by  stepping  outside  into  the 
serene  atmosphere  of  the  village  street,  There  all  was  peace. 


THE  COUNTRY  STORE.  219 

Horses  stamped  the  snow  and  jingled  their  bells ;  the  same  moon 
and  stars  that  looked  down  upon  the  splendor  and  traffic  of  great 
cities  smiled  on  the  quiet  village  of  Whitefield  Corner;  where 
women  and  children  watching  the  night  would  say,  "  It  can't 
be  late,  for  there's  a  light  in  William  Saylor's  store." 

At  nine  o'clock  Saylor  always  shut  his  window  blinds.  Then 
the  talkers  and  their  listeners  always  went  home.  The  horses 
were  unhitched ;  the  lamp  put  out,  and  almost  before  the  store- 
keeper had  withdrawn  his  door-key  from  its  socket,  women 
would  begin  to  call  out,  "It's  bedtime,  for  William  Saylor's 
is  shut  up." 

How  many  of  you  have  known  such  a  store,  into  whose  thresh- 
old and  floor  the  stream  of  a  bygone  village  life  has  worn  its 
path  !  It  can  never  be  repeated.  The  conditions  of  its  existence 
are  passed.  Never  again  will  the  women  of  Whitefield  innocently 
shape  their  own  fashions.  They  are  no  longer  shut  in  from  the 
prying  eyes  of  the  outer  world ;  nor  yet,  alas  !  from  its  pomps 
and  vanities.  A  way  has  been  opened  for  them  into  the  very 
heart  of  the  land. 

But  where  is  the  heart  of  the  village  ?  Absorbed ;  only  the 
ghost  of  a  memory  haunting  the  ghost  of  a  store  !  Years  ago, 
the  lamp  which  sent  out  its  beams  through  that  little  window 
cheered  a  whole  landscape, — a  great  white  landscape,  high  up; 
shut  in  ;  a  calm  retreat  of  untroubled  minds.  The  snow  and 
the  silence  remain,  but  the  simplicity,  culture,  and  comradeship, 
fostered  by  enforced  isolation,  are  gone. 


<•"  OCUND  country  harvests ;  blessed  dying  days  of  the 
spent  year, — how  delightful,  seen  from  an  upland, 
was  the  exuberance  of  your  finished  vegetation ! 
Farms  were  like  gardens,  with  patches  of  corn  and  later  grain 
and  clover  and  soft-tinted  second  grass.  Orchards  were  full  of 
apple-heaps;  pumpkins  and  squashes  dotted  the  fields;  sumachs 
flaunted  by  the  roadside  and  outlined  the  walls ;  forests  were 
aflame ;  bushes  kindled  in  field  and  pasture.  The  earth  was 
alive  with  workers.  The  life  of  every  household  seemed  to  Jiave 
poured  itself  out  upon  the  landscape,  to  which,  beyond  the  bright- 
ness given  to  it  by  the  deep-dyed  colors  of  the  perfected  year, 
was  added  that  afterglow  of  the  summer,  which  marks  the  true 
harvest  days.  These  days  are  the  richest  of  the  year,  for  they 
hold  its  dying,  its  life,  and  its  resurrection.  They  are  full  of  its 
miracles.  The  incoming  season  is  pushing  out  the  old ;  and  the 
husks  which  are  thrust  out  in  the  process,  the  stubble  of  the 

29  221 


222  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

cornfields,  the  withered  vines  and  weeds,  the  things  that  have 
been  blighted  by  frost,  or  sapped  by  the  fruits  which  they  have 
borne,  lie  thick  on  the  brown  earth.  The  refuse  of  the  outgone 
life  and  its  incoming  fruits  are  fused  together  in  a  sort  of  mel- 
lowed glory, — a  final  and  transient  burst  of  brightness  from  the 
spent  season,  which  is  giving  back  to  the  farmer  tenfold  for  his 
labors. 

To  one  driving  at  night  through  the  country,  what  can  surpass 
its  beauty,  the  offspring  of  its  devastation?  Over  all,  fair  and 
solemn  and  stately,  watches  the  harvest  moon.  There  is  a  gray 
glitter  to  everything.  Objects  bristle  in  the  clear,  cold  air. 
Shadows  beset  wood  and  highway,  and  lie  upon  rock  and  hillock 
and  field  and  pasture.  Shadows  lurk  in  corners,  stalk  before  and 
stretch  out  behind.  The  whole  landscape  takes  life.  Trees  and 
fences  seem  to  move,  and  far-away  objects  play  pranks  with  your 
horse.  Every  sound  is  crisp  in  this  night  air.  The  frisking  of 
your  little  dog  through  the  wayside  bushes  snaps  their  twigs  like 
the  click  of  pistols.  Anything  stirring  in  the  wood,  or  out  of  it, 
sends  an  echo  flying  over  the  resonant  fields.  Farm-houses  and 
barns  are  bright  with  harvest  lights.  Distance  and  moonlight 
lend  charm  to  mild  festivities,  and  girls,  seen  from  the  highway, 
move  and  work  amongst  their  sheaves  with  a  classic  grace.  If 
the  doors  of  the  barns  are  shut,  then  from  cracks  and  crevices 
and  gable-windows  streams  the  ruddy  light,  and  merry  as  bells 
burst  out  the  singing  voices  of  young  men  and  maidens.  Their 
songs  are  mostly  quaint  ballads,  swelling  full  upon  the  night  air. 

One  of  these  old  barns  was  an  attractive  place,  with  its  ceiling 


AFTER    THE  SUMMER. 


223 


lofty  and  cobwebbed,  its  gable-windows  far  up  and  dusty  and  dim, 
its  walls  flanked  on  either  side  by  solid  mows  of  sweet-smelling 
hay,  which  clung  to  the  boards  and  beams  way  up  to  the  rafters. 
It  was  full  of  the  odor  of  the  dried  ferns  and  flowers  that  had 
been  entangled  and  cut  down  with  the  grasses ;  and  ladders  and 


working-tools,  leaning  against  its  mows,  blended  in  beauty  with 
its  many-shaded  browns,  as  did  every  senseless  thing  and  dumb 
beast  and  living  man  within  its  walls. 

Behold  an  ancient  husking-party, — merry  gathering.  The 
barn  is  dimly  lighted  by  candles  in  tin  lanthorns,  hung  high  on 
pegs.  The  homely  structure  suffers  a  night-change  into  a  lofty 


224  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 


l,  with  arches  and  stained  roof  and  fretted  beams.  A  new  life 
seems  to  be  born  into  the  withered  grass.  It  clings  to  and  twines 
about  the  jagged  wood  with  a  fantastic  carving.  A  whole,  year 
has  gone  into  the  mixing  of  the  colors  of  this  picture,  in  the 
shadows  of  which  sit  the  huskers  of  the  corn  harvest.  The 
brawny  arms  of  young  men  and  the  plump  arms  of  maidens 
keep  time  to  their  music.  Some  are  breaking  the  ears  from 
the  stalk  ;  others  are  stripping  the  husks  from  the  ear,  lightening 
their  tasks  with  the  babble  of  flying  tongues.  Stout  men  bear 
brimful  baskets  of  golden  ears  to  the  granary  ;  heaps  of  cast-off 
stacks  are  made  compact  ;  crisp  white  husks  pile  up  against  the 
shoulders  of  the  girls  and  fly  about  their  ears  ;  cheeks  grow  red 
and  eyes  brighten;  spirits  rise;  jokes  are  cracked;  pranks 
played;  and  many  a  flirtation  plied  with  unconscious  grace. 
The  end  comes  at  length,  the  last  basket  is  sent  out,  the  husk- 
ing is  over.  The  thrifty  farmer,  who  has  slyly  put  back  his 
clock  and  delayed  his  supper,  blows  a  horn,  and  just  as  the  Ian- 
thorns  begin  perhaps  to  wane,  out  from  the  barn  burst  the  rustic 
merrymakers,  eager  for  the  harmless  festivities  of  farm-house 
parlor  and  kitchen. 

The  supper  is  abundant,  homely,  and  wholesome,  and  the 
huskers,  with  appetites  sharpened  by  labor,  partake  heartily  of 
it.  The  hardy  workers  keep  no  late  hours,  and  midnight  finds 
the  farm-house  silent  and  deserted,  whilst  groups  of  merry  youths 
send  their  chatter  and  laughter  echoing  back  from  lane  and  field. 

On  the  morrow  the  host  will  go  out  early  to  inspect  his  granary, 
and  make  right  any  careless  assorting  of  ears.  The  stalks  will 


AFTER    THE  SUMMER.  225 

be  stowed  away  on  highest  mow  for  future  feed.  If  kindly 
disposed,  he  will  leave  the  ragged  butts  to  be  picked  over  by 
careful  housewives.  How  forlorn  these  women  looked,  with 
shawls  pinned  over  their  heads,  rummaging  for  white  husks ; 
intent,  silent,  plying  their  task  with  bare  and  sinewy  arms,  their 
wrinkled,  careworn  faces  tanned  by  exposure,  it  was  hard  to  think 
of  them  as  having  once  been  rosy,  laughing  girls,  handsome 
helpers  at  bygone  huskings.  They  tramped  along  the  highway 
with  crowded  baskets  and  bundles,  satisfied,  and  unconscious 
that  in  thus  taking  up  the  fag-end  of  the  harvest  they  were 
only  gray  workers  and  bearers  of  burdens.  Their  husks  made 
sweet  beds,  and  the  mats  they  plaited  were  serviceable  and 
cleanly. 

Busy,  prudent,  working  woman !  the  same  thrift  which  has 
spread  her  joints  and  hardened  her  face  has  also  helped  to  build 
her  comfortable  home.  Here  are  the  shining  pans  on  the  bench 
beside  her;  the  kitchen-garden,  just  beyond,  alive  with  bees; 
the  water-barrel,  half  buried  in  sunflowers ;  the  plantains  and 
burdocks ;  the  wood-pile,  tossed  about,  with  axe  and  chopping- 
block  near  it, — all  incidents  of  a  pleasant  picture,  for  this  is 
the  back-door  of  a  farm-house,  and  this  woman  the  simple  house- 
wife, whose  walk  in  life  is  with  these  homely  things. 

She  was  plump  and  fair  and  rosy-cheeked  once.  In  childhood 
she  roamed  the  fields  and  pastures,  and  went  to  the  village  school. 
As  she  grew  older  she  had  much  heart  in  rustic  merriment.  She 
showed  taste  in  dress  and  a  love  for  flowers.  A  natural  grace 
was  born  in  her.  Something  called  gentility  came  to  her,  so  that 


226  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

the  garments  she  wore  fitted  and  became  her.  She  had  her  little 
romance,  begun  and  ended  at  an  apple-bee  or  husking.  Dressed 
in  her  prettiest  frock,  with  a  bright  ribbon  at  her  throat,  she  wras 
then  most  unlike  this  hard-faced  woman  standing  by  her  door. 
Here  she  is  a  background  to  part  of  her  belongings.  She  has 
burnished  the  pans,  and  weeded  the  garden,  and  dipped  water 
from  the  barrel  day  after  day.  Suns  have  risen  and  set,  years 
have  begun  and  ended,  and  the  wearisome  cares  have  also  come 
round  in  never-varying  procession,  until  she  has  gotten  to  be 
what  you  now  see  her,  a  patient,  faded  worker, — the  spinner 
and  weaver'  and  purveyor  of  a  household. 

These  hand-maidens  of  nature,  isolated  from  art,  unconsciously 
expressed  much  beauty  in  their  humble  wares.  The  webs  they 
wove  were  unadulterated,  pliant,  and  lustrous ;  their  dyes,  drawn 
from  homely  weeds,  were  rich  and  tenacious ;  their  polished 
bowls,  scooped  out  from  knotted  wood,  were  prettier  than  any 
silver  plate ;  their  flax- wheels  were  stringed  instruments ;  and 
many  things  of  their  daily  handling  were  elegant  for  shape  or 
color. 

Who  has  ever  seen  a  more  pleasing  sitting-room  than  that  of 
many  an  old-fashioned  country-house,  with  its  deep-toned  home- 
spun carpet,  its  dark  mahogany,  its  tall  clock  in  the  corner,  its 
narrow  mantel,  high  up,  filled  with  sea-shells  and  a  stray  vase 
or  two ;  its  low  walls ;  its  windows  shaded  by  lilacs  and  over- 
hanging elms?  The  brass  knobs  on  drawers  and  doors,  and  in 
chimney-corners,  were  pleasant  spots  of  brightness.  The  brass- 
tipped,  lion-clawed  table-legs  were  the  best-made  things  of  their 


AFTER    THE  SUMMER. 


227 


kind.  The  clock  in  the  corner,  with  its  quaint  machinery,  its 
involved  registering,  and  its  loud  ticking,  was  the  unlying  chroni- 
cler which  was  to  last  long  after  the  family  died, — a  thing  beauti- 
ful for  the  richness  of  its  material  and  the  stately  expression  of 
its  form.  A  soft  brown  pervaded  the  room,  which  was  brightened 
through  its  windows  by  more  perfect  landscapes  than  could  be 
bought  for  money,  perfumed  by  scents  which 
no  art  could  bind  up  for  sale.  The 
curtains  and  carpets,  the 
threads  of  which  were 
dyed  with  barks  and 
weeds,  had  the  wild 
color  of  things  which 
had  grown  in  fields 
and  woods. 

Farm-houses  were  busy 
as  bee-hives  in  autumn  with 
the  peculiar  work  of  the  season. 
Their  sunny  sides  were  hung  with  strings 
of  sliced  apples  and  pumpkins ;  yards  were  littered  with  barrels 
and  casks  and  loaded  carts ;  sheds  were  crammed  with  the  out- 
pouring of  the  year.  The  women  were  eagerly  taking  up  the 
loose-lying  threads  of  their  work,  chopping,  pickling,  preserving, 
assorting  their  butter  and  cheese  for  the  market,  setting  their 
dyes,  and  making  their  woollen  webs  into  garments. 

When  the  harvests  had  been  gathered  in,  the  mellow  flavor 
of  them  seemed  to  pervade  the  whole  house ;  and  there  was  not 


228  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

a  room  which  was  not  in  some  way  graced  by  the  products  of  the 
past  year.  The  garret  was  crammed,  and  the  kitchen  beams  were 
hung  thick  with  earth-grown  things  :  strings  of  bright  peppers, 
bunches  of  herbs,  long-necked  squashes,  braided  seed-corn,  and 
much  else  precious  to  the  farmer, — summer  forage  of  his  fields. 
The  most  valued  gifts  of  his  farm  were  kept  here,  in  sight  and 
out  of  reach, — the  sacred  seedlings  of  the  coming  year.  The 
cellar  beneath  was  full  of  the  fatness  of  the  past  season.  From 
its  bins  came  the  odor  of  many  field  crops;  out  of  casks  and 
barrels  the  scent  of  the  year's  vintage. 

The  farmer  is  planted  in  his  chimney-corner.  His  year's  work 
is  over,  his  harvest  is  gathered  in.  Asleep  by  his  hearth-stone, 
with  the  ruddy  firelight  dancing  over  him,  he  is  a  picture  of 
calm  content, — an  honest  man,  with  few  wants,  enriched  by 
nature,  and  so  made  happy  by  her.  His  room  is  also  fire-gilded 
into  a  place  of  rare  delight.  The  fruits  which  he  has  by  hard 
labor  wrought  out  of  the  earth's  bosom,  strung  over  and  around 
him,  cling  like  carved  things  to  the  beams  and  walls ;  so  that, 
without  knowing  it,  this  homely  man  sits,  a  life  study,  by  his 
own  hearth-stone. 

With  the  ending  of  the  harvest  peace  seemed  to  fall  upon  the 
farm-houses ;  they  were  filled  with  the  glow  of  blazing  fires  and 
the  inturning  of  the  out-of-doors  life.  It  was  a  simple,  sweet 
life.  Memories  of  winter  evenings  spent  at  my  grandfather's 
come  back  to  me.  They  bring  to  me  the  glory  of  age,  the 
simplest  forms  of  domestic  life,  and  the  beauty  of  winter  land- 
scapes. They  give  to  me  a  perfect  fireside  picture  in  a  quaintly- 


AFTER-  THE  SUMMER. 


229 


furnished  room,  in  the  chimney-corner  of  which  sits  an  old  man 
with  flowing  white  hair,  a  beautiful  old  man.  Outside,  to  the 
far-away  horizon,  stretches  the  undulating,  snow-covered  land- 
scape, on  which,  in  gray  outline  upon  a  white  ground,  one  sees 
many  beautiful  things  which  were  hidden  by  the  verdure  of 
summer;  many  shapes  which  have  been  revealed  by  the  dying 
of  leaves  and  grass.  Skeleton  trees  and  bushes  and  naked 
woods  seem  to  be  thrust  out  in  aerial  mezzotint — soft,  gray,  and 
shadowy.  The  piercing  firelight  streams  through  the  windows, 
and  stretches  out  and  joins  hands  with  the  moonbeams,  and  goes 
dancing  over  field  and  pasture,  even  to  the  far-off  hills. 


WINTER    PLEASURES. 


How  utterly  transforming  to  the  country  is  the  first  positive 
snow-fall  of  winter !  It  is  a  thing  of  life ;  it  clings  and  hangs 
everywhere.  Its  great,  fluffy  ridges  and  folds  put  out  of  sight 
fences  and  rocks  and  hillocks  and  highways,  and  bleach  the  gray 


WINTER  PLEASURES.  231 

surface  of  the  landscape  into  a  dazzling  whiteness.  Under  this 
new  veneering  the  most  untidy  farm-houses  are  beautiful,  and 
the  worst-tilled  fields  as  good  as  the  best.  Waking  up  into  such 
a  change  some  winter  morning  is  like  going  into  a  new  world. 
It  is  coming  out  from  the  gray  mourning  of  the  almost  dead  year 
into  a  sublime  white  silence. 

Every  country-born  person  can  recall  such  greeting  of  an 
early  snow,  to  meet  which  he  has  gone  forth  with  elastic  step 
and  heart.  Slowly  and  picturesquely  motion  is  thrust  upon  the 
scene.  Walkers,  scuffling  through  the  light  snow,  trail  slender 
paths  along ;  smoke  coils  from  chimneys ;  cattle  are  let  into  the 
sunny  barnyards ;  life  spills  out  from  the  farm-houses ;  troughs 
are  chopped  free  from  ice ;  men  begin  to  hack  at  the  wood-piles 
and  draw  water  from  the  wells;  teams  are  harnessed;  children 
start  for  school, — the  new  landscape  is  alive  with  workers,  thrust 
out  with  startling  distinctness  from  its  snow  background. 

Directly  off  from  roofs  and  fences  and  rocks  and  higher  hil- 
locks, with  the  sun's  march,  slips  this  snow  covering,  and  from 
the  beautiful,  evanescent  picture  arises  another,  with  added 
warmth  and  life  and  color.  To  one  driving  through  a  forest 
at  such  a  time  it  is  as  if  fairies  had  been  at  work  and  laden 
its  minutest  twigs  with  a  rare  white  burden.  Snow-clad  old 
wood,  through  which  I  passed  years  ago  on  my  way  to  my 
grandfather's  farm,  you  are  as  lovely  in  memory  as  you  were 
in  reality  then.  It  is  early  morning.  The  air  seems  to  crackle 
with  the  magic  of  frostwork.  Fleecy  fringes  are  falling  from 
the  overburdened  branches  and  fling  over  me  great,  foam-like 


232  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

flakes;  the  horses'  hoofs  sink  deep  and  noiselessly.  Footprints 
of  wild  animals  are  thick  in  the  wood,  and  all  along  the  way- 
side are  tracks  of  squirrels,  rabbits,  and  such  harmless  things. 
Loaded  teams  grow  frequent  and  sleighs  fly  past.  The  sound 
of  bells  is  crisp  and  loud.  Betsy  pricks  up  her  ears  and  flings 
out  a  spray-like  cloud  on  either  side.  The  little  dog  following 
after  shoots  over  the  wall,  bounding  neck  deep  into  the  unbroken 
snow,  sniffs  at  the  tiny  footmarks  of  game,  plunges  into  the  wood, 
and  I  hear  him  barking  shortly  after  far  ahead.  Twigs  begin  to 
snap.  There  is  a  crackle  through  the  wood,  the  sun  is  climbing 
up,  the  snow  is  melting,  and  falling  from  the  trees  sinks  with  a 
fluffy  sound  into  the  cooler  bed  below.  Sharp  and  distinct  is  the 
voice  of  this  dissolving  panorama.  As  the  sun  gets  power  the 
snow  garment  shrinks,  and  all  of  a  sudden  it  glides  off  from  the 
grim  old  wood. 

Often  a  mist  or  rain,  coming  upon  the  newly-fallen  snow, 
crystallizes  it  into  solid  shapes,  and  the  sun  gives  to  this  frost- 
work a  bewildering  beauty.  Nothing  could  surpass  my  old  wood 
thus  clad.  It  was  a  sublime,  many-arched,  crystal  cathedral, 
outlined  with  flashing  brightness.  What  a  transient  thing  it 
was !  As  quickly  as  the  sun  gilded  it,  just  so  quickly  did  it 
demolish  it.  Glittering  pillar  and  frieze  and  cornice  suddenly 
disintegrated,  and  under  the  gray,  naked,  old  trees  thick-strewn 
twigs  and  fast-melting  icicles  were  all  that  was  left  of  this  palace 
of  carved  ice. 

How  short  the  winter  days  used  to  seem !  how  clear-cut  they 
were  by  snow  and  cold  and  lack  of  growing  life !  What  winters 


WINTER   PLEASURES.  233 

those  were  of  forty  years  ago,  when  snow-drifts  blotted  out  the 
features  of  a  landscape  and  levelled  the  country  into  a  monoto- 
nous white  plain ;  when  people  wroke  in  the  morning  to  find  their 
windows  blocked  up,  and  the  chief  labor  of  months  was  to  keep 
their  roads  open ! 

Much  joy  the  young  people  got  out  of  these  same  snow-drifts. 
The  crusts  which  hid  the  fences  gave  them  ample  coasting-fields, 
and  they  burrowed  like  rabbits  in  the  drifts.  I  remember  a 
village,  beloved  by  Boreas,  which  was  beset  by  mimic  Laplanders, 
who  used  to  call  out  to  surprised  travellers  from  their  caves  in 
the  piled-up  wayside.  In  this  same  village  the  adventurous  boy 
used  to  shoot  over  highway  and  fence,  across  fields,  past  a  frozen 
brook,  up  to  the  edge  of  a  forest  a  mile  off.  His  small  craft 
was  liable  to  strand  by  the  way,  and  lucky  was  he  if  he  did  not 
bring  up  against  the  jagged  bark  of  some  outstanding  tree.  His 
sled  was  home-made,  of  good  wood,  mortised  and  pinned  together, 
and  shod  with  supple  withes,  which  with  use  took  a  polish  like 
glass,  and  had  seldom  to  be  renewed. 

Boys  and  girls  slid  and  coasted  through  their  childhood,  and 
this  keen  challenge  of  the  north  winds,  this  flinging  of  muscle 
against  the  rude  forces  of  winter,  shaped  and  strengthened 
them  for  after-labor.  They  glided  along  the  highway,  over  the 
ruts  made  by  iron-shod  wood-sleds ;  they  guttered  the  snow-drifts 
with  tracks ;  and  wherever  the  rain  had  settled  and  frozen  in 
the  fields  or  by  the  wayside,  they  cleared  and  cut  up  the  ponds 
with  their  swift  flying  feet.  Ploughing  knee-deep  through  freshly- 
fallen  snows  to  the  village  school,  roughly  clad,  rosy-cheeked, 


234  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

joyous,  they  eagerly  beset  passing  sleds  and  sleighs,  hanging 
to  stakes  and  clinging  to  runners,  from  which  they  tumbled  into 
the  school-house  entry,  stamping  it  full  of  snow.  The  girls  were 
not  a  whit  behind  the  boys  in  their  clamor  and  agility.  They 
slid  down  the  steep  snow-banks  and  up  and  down  the  ice-paths, 
swift  and  fearless,  and  burst  into  the  school-room  almost  as 
riotously  as  the  boys. 

Tea-drinkings  were  the  usual  social  diversions  of  the  farm- 
house winter  life.  They  were  prim  occasions,  on  which  the  best 
china,  linen,  and  silver  were  brought  out.  Pound-cake  and  pies 
and  cheese  and  doughnuts  and  cold  meats  were  set  forth,  and 
guests  partook  of  them  with  appetites  sharpened  by  the  rarity 
of  the  occasion.  Neighbors  from  miles  away  were  liable,  on  any 
winter's  evening,  to  drive  into  my  grandfather's  yard  for  a  social 
cup  of  tea.  The  women  took  off  their  wraps,  smoothed  their 
cap-borders,  and  planted  themselves,  knitting-work  in  hand,  be- 
fore the  hearth  in  the  best  room.  The  men  put  up  their  horses, 
and  coming  back,  they  stamped  their  feet  furiously  in  the  entry, 
and  blustered  into  the  sitting-room,  filling  it  with  frosty  night-air. 
They  talked  of  the  weather,  of  the  condition  of  their  stock,  of 
how  the  past  year's  crops  held  out,  and  told  their  plans  for  the 
coming  year.  The  women  gossiped  of  town  affairs,  the  minister, 
the  storekeeper's  latest  purchase,  of  their  dairies,  and  webs,  and 
linens,  and  wools,  keeping  time  with  flying  fingers  to  the  tales 
they  told.  The  unconscious  old  clock  in  the  corner  kept  ticking 
away  the  while,  and  Hannah,  in.  the  next  room,  set  in  order  the 
repast,  to  which  they  did  ample  justice,  growing  more  garrulous 


WINTER  PLEASURES. 


235 


when  inspired  by  the  fine  flavor  of  hospitality.  They  came  and 
also  went  away  early.  When  the  outer  door  and  big  gate  had 
closed  after  them,  there  had  also  gone  out  with  them  all  extra 
movement  and  bustle  from  the  household.  Every  spoon  and  fork 


and  plate  was  already  in  its  place,  the  remnants  of  the  feast  had 
disappeared,  and  the  family  was  ready  to  take  up  on  the  morrow 
the  slackened  thread  of  its  working  ways. 

The  leave-takings  of  these  ancient  hosts  and  guests  were  simple 
and  beautiful.      They  shook  hands  and   passed   salutations   and 


236  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

good  wishes  with  as  much  gravity  as  if  they  had  been  going 
to  some  far  land;  and  the  pleasure  which  the  visitors  avowed 
in  the  graciousness  shown  them  was  heartfelt.  Merrily  jingled 
their  bells  from  out  the  farm-yard  into  the  highway,  and  softly 
dying  out  with  distance,  the  sound  came  back  from  the  far-off 
hills  in  pleasant  echo. 

Tender,  true  hospitality,  simple  customs,  rare  entertainments, 
you  left  no  sting,  no  weariness  behind  you.  You  gave  and  im- 
poverished not.  You  were  ungilded  but  dignified  and  decorous, 
healthful  and  pleasure-giving.  If  you  were  plain,  you  were  not 
inelegant,  for  your  silver  was  pure,  your  china  quaint  arid  costly, 
your  linens  were  fine-twined,  your  viands  were  well  cooked  and 
wholesome.  You  were  simply  served  to  simple  guests,  but  not 
without  etiquette  and  the  essence  of  style.  The  host  carved  with 
dexterity,  and  the  hostess,  in  her  busy  passes,  was  instinctively 
observant  of  the  tastes  and  needs  of  her  guests.  That  which 
garments  lacked  in  material  and  make,  the  ruddy  firelight  im- 
parted to  them,  painting  these  robust  farmers  and  matrons  into 
rarely-costumed  pictures.  What  of  high  culture  was  wanting  to 
their  speech,  was  given  to  it  by  the  sweet  piety  and  purity  of  it. 
They  talked  of  what  made  up  their  daily  lives,  and  that  was  the 
yearly  marvels  and  glories  of  ever-dying,  ever-renewing  nature. 
The  men,  discoursing  of  winds  and  rains  and  cattle  and  grasses 
and  trees  and  grains,  stumbled  upon  many  truths  of  high 
philosophy ;  and,  reviewing  with  earnest  faith  the  sermons  of  the 
Sabbath-day,  showed  themselves  well  grounded  in  all  gospel 
doctrine.  The  women,  innocently  prattling  of  the  webs  they 


WINTER  PLEASURES.  237 

wove,  drawing  in  and  out  the  threads  of  much  discourse,  mixed 
with  it  many  a  fine-spun  sentiment,  and  the  golden  overshot  of 
the  few  but  keenly  relished  diversions  of  their  serious  lives.  The 
serving-maid  and  serving-man  listening  to  them,  and  catching 
the  glow  of  the  firelight  past  them,  went  into  the  background 
of  the  picture,  to  be  quaint  creatures  of  remembered  scenes. 
They  themselves,  observant  and  reverent  of  their  elders,  felt 
the  sweets  of  hospitality  in  their  own  hearts ;  and  in  ministering 
generously  unto  others  were  themselves  being  ministered  unto. 

The  winter  lull  of  vegetation  was  often  spent  by  my  grand- 
mother and  Hannah  in  the  spinning  and  dyeing  and  weaving 
of  woollen  fabrics,  to  be  afterwards  fashioned  into  quilts. ,  The 
most  esteemed  of  these  were  made  of  glossy,  dark  flannel,  lined 
with  yellow,  with-  a  slight  wadding  of  carded  wool.  For  such 
a  quilt  the  best  fleece  was  set  aside,  and  many  dyes  steeped  in 
the  chimney-corner.  Fastened  to  a  frame,  it  was  in  summer 
the  fine  needle-work  of  the  house.  Neighbors  invited  to  tea 
helped  to  prick  into  it,  stitch  by  stitch,  the  shapes  of  flowers  and 
leaves.  They  came  early  and  bent  over  it  with  grim  zeal,  helped 
on  by  the  gradual  showing  of  the  pattern.  They  loved  to  take 
out  the  pins  and  roll  up  the  thing,  counting  its  coils  with  delight. 
The  quilting  of  it  was  hard  work,  but  the  women  called  this  rest, 
and  were  made  happy  by  such  simple  variation  of  labor.  They 
kept  up  their  harmless  babble  until  sundown,  when  one,  more 
anxious  than  the  rest,  catching  sight  of  a  returning  herd,  would 
exclaim,  "  The  cows  are  coming,  and  I  must  go."  Shortly  they 
might  all  be  seen  hurrying  hither  and  thither  through  green 

31 


238  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

lanes,  back  to  the  cares  which  they  had  for  a  few  hours 
shifted. 

The  finishing  of  this  quilt  made  a  gala  day  for  the  neighbor- 
hood. It  was  unrolled  and  cut  out  with  much  excitement. 
WJien  Hannah  took  it  to  the  porch-door  to  shake  it  out,  the 
women  all  followed  her,  clutching  its  edges,  remarking  upon 
the  plumpness  of  the  stitched  leaves,  and  the  fineness  of  its 
texture.  It  was  truly  a  beautiful  thingt  for  it  was  a  growth  of 
the  farm, — an  expression  of  the  life  of  its  occupants,  a  fit  cov- 
ering for  those  who  made  it. 

The  winter  diversions  of  the  young  people  were  just  as  simple 
as  those  of  their  elders.  What  could  be  quainter  than  the 
singing-school,  held  in  a  country  school-house,  with  its  rows  of 
tallow  candles  planted  along  the  desks,  and  its  loud-voiced  master 
pitching  his  tunes?  The  young  men  sat  on  one  side  and  the 
maidens  on  the  other.  Its  wild  music  was  heard  far  away.  The 
tunes  sung  were  of  long  repute,  and  what  was  wanting  in  melody 
and  harmony  was  made  up  by  the  zeal  with  which  they  were 
roared  out.  To  many  of  the  singers  the  walk  home  was  the  best 
of  all,  when,  in  undertone,  they  lengthened  out  the  melodies 
which  had  been  taught  them. 

Apple-bees  and  spelling-matches  sometimes  brought  together 
the  fathers  and  mothers  of  the  district,  as  well  as  their  sons  and 
daughters.  The  former  were  apt  to  mean  frolics,  which  carried 
more  confusion  than  profit  into  a  farmer's  kitchen.  The  latter 
were  the  occasions  of  much  healthy  merriment. 

After  all,  the  true  zest  to  these  diversions  was  given  to  them 


WINTER  PLEASURES.  239 

by  the  bright  moonlight,  which  generally  brought  them  to  pass. 
It  was  a  welcome  comer,  and  turned  the  introverted  evening  life 
of  the  farm-houses  out  into  illuminated  lanes  and  highways. 
Solemn  highways  on  gray  winter  evenings ;  one  got  easily  be- 
wildered in  them  and  thrown  off  from  his  track.  Objects  loomed 
up  out  of  the  snow,  and  harmless  things  took  strange  shapes  and 
looked  ghostly  in  distance  and  whiteness.  Horses  were  apt  to 
shy,  runners  bounced  with  a  sharp  click  upon  the  uneven  path, 
and  bells  rang  sharply  in  the  clear,'  cold  air.  Merry,  merry 
bells,  telling  of  coming  and  departing  guests, — the  one  jocund 
voice  of  winter,  putting  the  traveller  in  heart,  making  glad  the 
listening  ear,  ringing  right  joyously  into  farm  lane  and  yard, — 
who  does  not  welcome  with  delight  the  old-time  jingle?  The 
sound  of  country  bells,  struck  out  by  the  slow,  measured  pace 
of  farm-horses,  was  of  prolonged  measure.  It  was  deep,  too, 
because  the  bells  were  made  large  and  of  good  metal.  The 
peculiar  sound  of  each  farmer's  bells  became  as  much  his  per- 
sonal possession  as  his  own  voice,  and  they  were  quite  sure  to 
last  his  lifetime.  As  much  as  the  winds  the  bells  gave  voice 
to  the  season.  It  was  joyous  mostly,  yet  with  a  wild  pathos  in 
its  music  when  dying  out  in  tortuous  country  ways,  with  that 
sad  indistinctness  of  any  sound  which  has  wellnigh  passed  into 
silence. 

Akin  to  the  bells  for  sweetness  of  expression  were  the  farm- 
house lights,  starring  the  landscape  and  telling  the  traveller  of 
peaceful  indoor  life.  Driving  through  the  country,  silent  with 
the  rest  of  winter,  one  cannot  overestimate  the  companionship 


240  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

and  friendliness  of  the  lighted  windows  of  outlying  habitations. 
The  breaking  of  a  farm-light  upon  your  sight  is  like  the  grasp 
of  a  living  hand,  and  with  it  comes  out  to  you  the  peace  of  fire- 
sides ;  by  it,  unawares,  people  send  forth  to  you  the  warm  glow 
of  hospitality.  An  unlighted  house  in  the  sparsely-settled  coun- 
try is  most  forlorn.  It  is  a  body  without  a  soul, — a  thing  which 
ought  to  be  alive  and  is  not. 

In  the  simplicity  of  ancient  country  life  the  homespun  curtains 
were  seldom  let  down  at  eventide.  The  farm-houses  were  mostly 
the  length  of  a  lane  from  the  roadside,  and  so  the  pictures  of  their 
indoor  life  were  sent  out  from  their  small  windows  through  a 
softened  perspective.  What  could  be  better  than  the  white- 
headed  old  man  dozing  in  one  chimney-corner ;  the  dear  old 
grandmother  nodding  in  the  other;  the  middle-aged  son  and 
daughter  resting  over  light  work;  the  back-log,  getting  ready 
for  its  raking  up ;  the  walls,  hung  with  tokens  of  sleeping  child- 
life,  such  as  slates,  caps,  and  comforters, — homely  things,  catching 
the  light  of  dying  embers  ! 

How  bright  the  winter  sunsets  were,  how  clear  and  starlit  the 
nights,  how  bracing  and  electric  the  air,  how  much  more  gen- 
erous than  harsh  was  that  climate  which,  while  it  blotted  out 
vegetation,  at  the  same  time  spread  over  the  landscape  a  great 
spectacular  glory ! 

Shut  in  by  frostwork  from  sight  of  the  out-of-doors  world, 
have  you  never,  when  a  child,  breathed  upon  an  icy  pane ;  and, 
through  the  loophole  thus  made,  caught  a  condensed  view  of  the 
glories  of  a  winter's  day? 


WINTER   PLEASURES.  '241 

Picturesque  upon  snow  were  the  most  common  movements  of 
farm-life.  Men,  chopping  logs,  seemed  more  like  players  than 
workers.  With  what  steady  swing  their  axes  rose  and  fell ! 
how  these  glittered  in  the  sunshine !  The  chips  that  flew  freely 
about,  tilted  at  all  angles,  how  fresh  they  were,  with  their  pret- 
tily-marked lines  of  yearly  growth,  their  shaggy  bark,  and  their 
scent  of  sap !  The  sound  of  the  axe  was  resonant  and  cheery, 


putting  life  into  a  farm-yard.  It  echoed  still  more  pleasantly 
from  a  woodland,  whence  it  came  with  a  muffled  indistinctness, 
like  a  regular  pulse-beat  of  labor.  The  choppers  seemed  never 
to  tire ;  only  they  stopped  now  and  then  to  brandish  their  stiff- 
ened arms,  and  gaze  at  their  growing  piles  with  thrifty  pride. 
They  wore  mittens  of  blue  and  white,  striped,  or  knit  in  a  curious 
pattern,  called  "  chariot  wheels,"  by  the  housewives.  Many  of 
them  had  leathern  patches  upon  thumb  and  palm. 

How   contentedly    the   cattle    stood   chewing   their   cuds    and 


242  NEW  ENGLAND  BYGONES. 

blinking  their  eyes;  looking  askance  at  the  long  icicles  which 
hung  from  eaves  of  barns,  and  trickled  drops  upon  their  backs ! 
Women  came  out  with  baskets  and  buckets  for  wood  and  water ; 
and,  in-  the  silent  attitude  of  labor,  paused  for  a  moment  and 
basked  in  the  sunshine.  Wood-laden  sleds  dragged  along  the 
highway,  with  boys  and  girls  clinging  to  their  stakes;  and  the 
teamsters'  shouts  to  "  Broad"  and  "  Bright,"  mingled  with  the 
chatter  and  laughter  of  boys  and  girls.  Roofs  lazily  drying, 
smoked  in  the  sunshine ;  and  you  heard  the  weather-wise  farmer 
saying  to  his  neighbor,  "  It  thaws  in  the  sun  to-day." 

Beautiful  was  the  heavily  coiling  smoke  in  the  crisp,  morning 
air.  How  deliciously  its  opaque  whiteness  was  piled  against  a 
background  of  sky !  What  a  charming  aerial  welcome  it  was 
from  the  morning  life  of  the  farm-house ! 

Beautiful  was  the  fantastic  piling  of  storm-clouds,  forerunners 
of  winds;  and  beautiful  were  the  rugged  drifts  made  by  flying 
snows. 

Hush  ! — I  am  young  again.  The  homely  scenes  have  all  come 
back, — the  old  workers  into  their  old  ways  and  places,  and  the 
earth  they  deal  with  wraps  them  about  with  its  splendor.  Snow 
King,  grand  old  master,  variously  carving  out  the  features  of  a 
winter  landscape,  I  salute  you  ! 

Dear  dwellers  in  that  old-fashioned  home,  I  salute  you  also ! 
You  seem  to  me  in  memory  as  stately  and  as  beautiful  as  one  of 
the  tall  oaks  of  your  own  possessions.  Nature  was  your  god- 
mother. She  led  you  in  childhood  through  her  fields  and  pas- 
tures and  woodlands.  She  distilled  for  you  the  best  balsams  of 


WINTER  PLEASURES. 


243 


her  trees  and  shrubs.  You  unwittingly  quaffed  them  as  you  went 
with  her,  and  they  gave  you  health  and  strength  and  lease  of  a 
long  life.  They  inoculated  you  with  a  taste  for  pure  pleasures. 
Your  frames,  your  manners,  your  desires,  your  whole  life,  had 
a  flavor  of  the  land  that  bore  you.  You  were  the  true  out- 
growth, the  real  aborigines,  the  rightful,  harmonious,  delightful 
denizens  of  the  soil,  you  long-dead,  but  never-to-be-forgotten 
dwellers  in  my  grandfather's  home ! 


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